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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


5) 


t. 


"»    I         ■ 


/ 


CHRIST  AT  THE 


SUSAN   HAYES  WARD. 


NEW    YORK: 

ANSON    D.    F.    RANDOLPH    &    COMPANY, 

770  Broadway,  cou.  9th  Street. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872,  by 

Anson  D.  F.  Kantjolph  &  Co., 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


E.O.JENKINS,  ROBERT     RUTTE 

PRINTER    AND    STEREOTYPER,  BINDER, 

90  N.  WILLIAM  ST.,  N.  Y.  M   beekman   street,  n. 


TO    MY 


DEAR    BROTHER  WILSON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHATEVER  tends  to  make  us  conscious 
of  the  nearness  of  Christ,  cannot  be 
overlooked  by  His  church.  If,  by  dwelling  upon 
any  thought,  we  are  led  to  realize  more  fully 
His  unwearying  patience  and  matchless  love,  we 
cannot  afford  to  pass  it  lightly  by ;  on  the  contrary, 
we  must,  perforce,  take  su^h  thoughts  home  to  our 
inmost  heart,  and  make  them  the  theme  of  medi- 
tation till  we  feel  His  holy  Presence  within  and 
around  us. 

With  some  little  appreciation  of  this  fact,  the 
present  volume  has  been  prepared.  A  figure  of 
Holy  Writ  has  been  selected,  and  the  attempt 
made  to  bririg  together  whatever  of  Christian  lore 
could  illustrate  or  develop  it. 

Christus  ad  portam  is  our  central  thought. 
The  metaphor  is  used  by  the  Revelator  when  he 
brings  to  view  the  Saviour  of  men,  standing,  knock- 
ing at  their  closed  portals,  with  exceeding  great  and 
precious  promises  of  grace  to  all  who  hear  and 

(s) 


6  Introduction. 

open  unto  Him.  In  the  Song  of  Songs,  which  is 
Solomon's,  it  is  the  Heavenly  Lover,  who  stands 
at  the  door,  calling  to  His  Bride,  until  His  head 
is  filled  with  dew  and  His  locks  with  the  drops  of 
the  night;  and  when,  moved  by  His  pleading 
voice,  she  tardily  unbars  the  entrance  and  finds 
Him  not,  her  remorseful  cries  wake  an  echo  in 
the  hearts  of  many  laggard  Christians  who  have 
all  too  slowly  opened  to  their  beloved — "  Oh,  that 
I  knew  where  I  might  find  him  !"  So,  years  ago, 
one  of  His  children*  sang : 

When  wilt  Thou  come  unto  me,  Lord  ? 

For  till  Thou  dost  appear 
I  count  each  moment  for  a  day, 

Each  minute  for  a  year. 
There  's  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  here, 

My  Jesus  is  my  all  : 
As  Thou  dost  shine  or  disappear 

My  pleasures  rise  or  fall. 
Come,  spread  Thy  savour  on  my.frame, 

No  sweetness  is  so  sweet, 
Till  I  get  up  to  sing  Thy  name 

Where  all  Thy  singers  meet. 

And  Charles  Wesley,  writh  that  intense  fervor 
which  characterizes  him,  pleads — 

*  Rev.  Thomas  Shepard. 


Introduction.  J 

Why  not  now,  my  God,  my  God  ? 

Ready  if  Thou  always  art, 
Make  in  me  Trty  mean  abode, 

Take  possession  of  my  heart : 
If  Thou  canst  so  greatly  bow, 
Friend  of  sinners,  why  not  now  ? 

God  of  love,  in  this  Thy  day, 

For  Thyself  to  Thee  I  cry, 
Dying,  if  Thou  still  delay 

Must  I  not  forever  die  ? 
Enter  now  Thy  poorest  home, 

Now,  my  utmost  Saviour,  come. 

This  subject  is  here  presented  under  the  two 
divisions  of  Christ  knocking  at  the  door,  and 
Christ,  a  guest ;  and,  under  the  second  head,  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  to  include  a  few  selections 
which  represent  the  longing  of  the  soul  for  that 
communion  promised  to  those  who  receive  the 
Lord  Jesus  into  their  hearts  by  faith. 

This  topic,  which  merely  touches  our  own,  is  a 
very  fruitful  one,  and  it  would  take  many  a  volume 
to  exhaust  its  stores  of  sacred  verse,  so  I  have 
confined  myself,  carefully,  to  those  prayers  for  the 
Divine  indwelling  which  seem  to  be  specially  ad- 
dressed to  the  Saviour  as .  a  loving  companion  or 
longed-for  guest,  leaving  the  almost  inexhaustible 
store  of  hymns  which  plead  for  the  presence  of 


8  Introdttction. 

the  Comforter,  or  for  the  Saviour's  presence  under 
any  other  figure  than  that  of  a  benignant  Visitor. 
Thus,  such  a  hymn  as  Wesley's, 

"  Christ  whose  glory  fills  the  skies, 
Christ  the  true,  the  only  Light," 

though  closing  with  the  lines, 

"  Visit  then  this  soul  of  mine, 

Pierce  the  gloom  of  sin  and  grief, 

Fill  me,  Radiancy  Divine, 
Scatter  all  my  unbelief, 

More  and  more  Thyself  display 

Shining  to  the  perfect  day," 

only  adopts  the  figure  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
or  the  Day  Star,  whose  warmth  and  light  dispel 
the  clouds  of  sin  or  sadness  from  the  heart ;  and 
so  it  is  not  suitable  for  our  purpose. 

Then  the  many  Roman  Catholic  hymns  which 
treat  of  the  presence  of  Christ  in  the  believer's 
heart  at  the  Holy  Communion  (and  we  find  a 
wealth  of  such  in  Latin,  French  and  German 
hymnals,  to  say  nothing  of  those  on  the  same  sub- 
ject from  Greek  sources),  though  just  upon  the 
border-ground,  we  turn  aside  from,  as  hardly  in- 
cluded in  our  boundaries ;  and  yet,  when  we  recall 
the  promise  made  by  One  knocking,  to  him  who 


Introduction.  9 

opens,  "  I  will  come  in  to  him,  and  will  sup  with 
him,  and  he  with  me,"  we  must  confess  that  these 
songs  of  that  sacred  mystery,  the  Holy  Supper, 
seem  almost  within  our  limits. 

Thus,  in  one  of  Faber's  child-hymns — and  what 
one  of  the  church's  song-masters  has  had  more 
child-like  simplicity  than  he  ? — we  read  : 

Jesus,  gentlest  Saviour ! 

God  of  might  and  power  ! 
Thou,  Thyself,  art  dwelling 

In  us,  at  this  hour. 
Nature  cannot  hold  Thee, 

Heaven  is  all  too  strait 
For  Thine  endless  glory, 

And  Thy  royal  state. 

Out  beyond  the  shining 

Of  the  farthest  star, 
Thou  art  ever  stretching 

Infinitely  far  ; 
Yet  the  hearts  of  children 

Hold  what  worlds  can  not, 
And  the  God  of  wonders 

Loves  the  lowly  spot. 

Jesus,  gentlest  Saviour ! 

Thou  art  in  us  now  ; 
Fill  us  full  of  goodness 

Till  our  hearts  o'erflow  ; 
Pray  the  prayer  within  us, 

That  to  heaven  shall  rise  ! 
Sing  the  song  that  angels 

Sing  above  the  skies. 


io  Introduction. 

Ah  !  when  wilt  Thou  always 

Make  cur  hearts  Thy  home  ? 
We  must  wait  for  Heaven, — 

Then  the  day  will  come. 
Now,  at  least,  we  '11  keep  Thee 

All  the  time  we  may  ; 
But  Thy  grace  and  blessing 
We  will  keep  alway. 
< 
And  we  feel  that  the  spirit  of  this  and  many  sim- 
ilar hymns  is  one  and  the  same  with  that  of  our 
own  chosen  theme. 

It  was  my  desire  to  make  a  complete  monograph 
of  this  figure ;  but  as  I  draw  my  pleasant  labor  to 
a  close,  nearly  every  new  issue  of  sacred  song 
brings  some  fresh  poem  demanding  notice. 

I  here  acknowledge  gratefully  my  indebtedness 
to  friends  who  have  aided  in  the  selection  of  these 
hymns ;  and  if,,  by  God's  blessing,  the  work  shall 
result  in  leading  any  soul  to  prepare  for  his  Guest, 
and  to  throw  open  the  door,  I  shall  not  have 
labored  in  vain.  Susan  Hayes  Ward. 

Knox  Seminary,  Galesburg,  III. 


PART   I. 

Christ  Knocking  at  the  Door. 


Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock. — Rev.  Hi.  20. 

I  sleep,  but  my  heart  waketh :  it  is  the  voice  of  my  beloved  that 
knocketh,  saying,  Open  to  me,  my  sister,  my  love,  my  dove,  my  unde- 
fined ;  for  my  head  is  filled  with  dew  and  my  locks  with  the  drops  of  the 
night.— Solomon's  Song,  v.  2. 


CHAPTER    I 


THE   LIGHT   OF   THE   WORLD. 

«• 

I  lift  my  heart  and  eyes  to  Thee, 
Jesus,  Thou  unextinguished  Light, 

My  guardian  Stay,  and  Leader  be, 
My  Cloud  by  day,  my  Fire  by  night. 

Glory  of  Israel,  Thou  within, 

Unshadowed,  uneclipsed,  appear, 
With  beams  of  grace  exhale  my  sin, 

Break  forth  Thou  bright  and  Morning  Star  ! 

— TOPLADT. 

NEAR  by  Goupil's  old  stand  on  Broadway, 
a  little  boy  used  often  to  waylay  us.  Some- 
times he  would  make  an  unexpected  attack  from 
the  rear;  sometimes  would  dart  suddenly  from 
round  a  corner ;  and,  often,  after  a  toilsome  day, 
when  walking  homeward  with  downcast  eye  and 
heavy  step  we  would  be  tending  mechanically  down 
the  street,  like  a  flash  of  light  the  little  fellow  would 

(13) 


14  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

spring  from  the  doorway  and  draw  us  back  into 
what  was  his  fairy-land,  or,  rather,  a  heaven  be- 
low, to  him. 

"  Please,  stop  !  Oh  !  do  stop  !  "  he  would 
plead  in  childish  treble.  "  Come  in  and  see 
Jesus." 

We  used  to  think  of  those  early  disciples,  of 
Andrew  and  Philip,  of  all  who,  having  found  their 
Lord,  so  gladly  urge  their  dear  ones  with  jubilant 
haste — "  Come  and  see." 

Set  low  upon  the  floor,  just  where  the  child 
could  stand  and  look  his  fill,  there  hung,  for  many 
a  week,  an  engraving  of  W.  Holman  Hunt's  won- 
derful picture,  "  The  Light  of  the  World."  We 
have  all  seen  it.  The  original,  marvellous  in  its 
weird  fascination ;  the  engraving,  possessing  much 
of  the  sacred  charm  that  invests  the  painting ;  or 
choice  photographs,  strangely  cheap  and  beauti- 
ful, have  made  the  picture  well  nigh  as  familiar  as 
a  Raphael  or  a  Guido.  Other  artists  have  repre- 
sented the  Gracious  Visitor  knocking  with  wound- 
ed hand  at  the  fast-shut  door,  but  none,  perhaps, 
have  had  the  gift  so  to  rivet  the  attention,  so  to 
move  the  heart ;  nor  do  we  know  a  sacred  paint- 
ing which  has  spoken  so  directly  to  the  soul ;  one 


Light  of  the  World.  1 5 

in  which  the  painter's  art  has  challenged  so  loudly 
its  sister  arts  to  aid  in  the  outward  manifestation 
of  feeling,  as  in  this.  Poets  have  looked  and 
looked  again,  and  then  have  written  as  if  inspired, 
and  many  a  hymn  whose  author  acknowledges  no 
indebtedness  to  the  painting,  has,  nevertheless, 
evidently  drawn  its  inspiration  thence. 

Of  those  poems  founded  directly  upon  Hunt's 
picture,  we  give  the  precedence  to  Mrs.  H.  B. 
Stowe's,  which  has  grown  familiar  as  household 
words  to  hymn-lovers  generally,  and,  in  view  of 
the  tenderness  of  feeling  which  overflows  in  every 
line,  we  cannot  look  at  it  critically.  The  hymn 
reads  as  follows : 


KNOCKING,  EVER  KNOCKING. 

Knocking,  knocking,  ever  knocking ! 

Who  is  there  ? 
'  Tis  a  pilgrim,  strange  and  kingly, 

Never  such  was  seen  before  ; — 
Ah,  sweet  soul,  for  such  a  wonder, 

Undo  the  door. 


1 6  Christies  ad  Portam. 

No  !  that  door  is  hard  to  open ; 
Hinges  rusty,  latch  is  broken  ; 

Bid  Him  go. 
Wherefore  with  that  knocking  dreary 
Scare  the  sleep  from  one  so  weary  ? 

Say  Him  "  No." 

Knocking,  knocking,  ever  knocking  ? 

What!     Still  there? 
Oh,  sweet  soul,  but  once  behold  him, 

With  the  glory-crowned  hair, 
And  those  eyes,  so  strange  and  tender, 

Waiting  there ; 
Open  !     Open#!     Once  behold  Him — 

Him  so  fair ! 

Ah,  that  door  !     Why  wilt  Thou  vex  me, 

Coming  ever  to  perplex  me  ? 

For  the  key  is  stiffly  rusty, 

And  the  bolt  is  clogged  and  dusty  ; 

Many-fingered  ivy  vine 

Seals  it  fast  with  twist  and  twine  ; 

Weeds  of  years,  and  years  before,. 

Choke  the  passage  of  that  door. 


Light  of  the  World.  1 7 

Knocking,  knocking  !     What !    Still  knock- 
ing? 

He  still  there  ? 
What's  the  hour  ?     The  night  is  waning — 
In  my  heart  a  drear  complaining, 

And  a  chilly,  sad  unrest ! 
Ah,  this  knocking  !     It  disturbs  me  ! 
Scares  my  sleep  with  dreams  unblest ! 

Give  me  rest : 

Rest ! — ah,  rest ! 


Rest,  dear  soul,  He  longs  to  give  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  only  dreamed  of  pleasure — 
Dreamed  of  gifts  and  golden  treasure — 
Dreamed  of  jewels  in  thy  keeping, 
Waked  to  weariness  of  weeping ; — 
Open  to  thy  soul's  one  Lover, 
And  thy  night  of  dreams  is  over, — 
The  true  gifts  He  brings,  have  seeming 
More  than  all  thy  faded  dreaming. 
Did  she  open  ?     Doth  she  ?    Will  she  ? 
So,  as  wondering  we  behold, 
Grows  the  picture  to  a  sign, 
2* 


1 8  CJiristus  ad  Portam. 

Pressed  upon  your  soul  and  mine ; 
For  in  every  breast  that  liveth 
Is  that  strange,  mysterious  door ; 
The  forsaken  and  betangled, 
Ivy-gnarled  and  weed-bejangled, 
Dusty,  rusty  and  forgotten  ; — 
There  the  pierced  hand  still  knocketh, 
And  with  ever-patient  watching, 
With  the  sad  eyes,  true  and  tender, 
With  the  glory-crowned  hair, 
Still  a  God  is  waiting  there. 


There  are  two  poems  of  English  origin  bearing 
the  same  title.  The  first  of  which,  though  some- 
times wanting  in  rhythm,  rivals  Mrs.  Stowe's  in 
its  descriptive  power,  and  has  the  signature  of  B. 
A.,  Brasenose  College,  Oxford ;  the  second,  that 
of  W.  R.  Weale.  We  give  them  as  re-printed  in 
"  The  Shadow  of  the  Rock  :" 


The  Light  of  the  World.  19 

I. 
THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

PAINTED   BY   HOLMAN    HUNT. 

In  the  moonlight,  when  no  murmur  from 

the  haunts  of  men  is  heard, 
And  the  river,  in  its  sleep,  flows  onward, 

onward  to  the  sea, 
And  thou  sleepest,  who  art  drawing-  nearer 

to  Eternity, 
In  the  silence  and  the  stillness  comes  the 

Word. 

And  He  knocketh  at  thy  portal,  but  thou 

dreamest  in  the  night 
That  the  flitting  bat  is  only  striking  softly 

'gainst  the  door ; 
Shall  He  knock  so  oft  who  cometh  from  the 

Heaven's  eternal  shore  ? 
Sleeper  in  the   darkness,  rise,  behold   thy 

Light! 


20  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

Tis  thy  Priest  and  Prophet,  clad  in  jewelled 

robe  and  white  attire  ; 
'Tis  thy  King,  and  on  His  brow  He  wears 

the  thorny  coronal, 
Budding  now  with  amaranthine  leaves  and 

flowers  ambrosial, 
In  His  face  is  speaking  pity,  silent  ire. 

For  His  glowing  lamp  discloseth,  choking 

up  thy  dwelling-door, 
Deadly    hemlock,    barren    darnel,   prickly 

bramble,  withered  grasses, 
And  the  ivy  knits  it  closely  to  its  stanchions 

and  passes 
Through  the  crevices,  and  hinges,  and  the 

floor. 

Let  Him  in  !  for  he  will  sojourn  with  the 
lowest  and  the  least, 

And  forget  that  thou  didst  keep  Him  wait- 
ing in  the  dews  and  damp  ; 

And  for  guerdon  in  the  valley,  He  will  light 
thee  with  His  lamp, 

To  the  happy  Shore  Eternal  and  the  Mar- 
riage Feast. 


The  Light  of  the  World.  2 1 

II. 

THE   LIGHT   OF   THE  WORLD. 

Lord,  Thou  hast  sought  this  wayward  heart 
in  vain ; 
Choked  by  the  world's  vile  weeds  its  por- 
tals stand, 
Closed  to  the  touch  of  Thy  redeeming 
hand, 
Which,  knocking-  gently,  would  an  entrance 
gain; 
e\         O  Love  unspeakable  !  that  Thou  shouldst  be 
Patient  amidst  the   night's   chill  -  falling 

dews, 
While  I  Thy  proffered  fellowship  refuse, 
Slothful  to  rise  and  ope  the  door  to  Thee  ! 
2        Long  have  I  tarried,  dreading  yet  to  bear 
The  emblems  of  Thy  suffering,  thorns  and 

cross ; 
Lost  in  idolatry  of  Mammon's  dross, 
And  lured  by  pleasure's  transitory  glare ; 


22  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

Henceforth    vouchsafe    to  shed  Thy  light 
within. 
Illume  my  soul,  and  let  these  contrite  tears 
Blot  out  all  record  of  my  misspent  years, 

Dark  with  the  sad  remembrances  of  sin  ; 
Then,  in  this  purified,  repentant  breast, 
Enter,  and  be  forevermore  my  Guest ! 


"  The  People's  Magazine,"  of  October  ist,  i868» 
contains  a  longer  poem  with  the  same  title.  Much 
of  the  verse  would  bear  pruning  ;  it  is  often  weak ; 
e.g.,  "  Rose  the  ideas  of  youth  again  !"  and,  in  one 
instance,  we  have  presumed  (will  the  author  par- 
don us?)  to  correct  an  ungrammatical  construc- 
tion, but  the  whole  poem  is  worth  a  patient  read- 
ing when,  at  last,  we  find  lines  of  such  simple 
heartfulness  as -those  beginning  "  Ah  !  I  remem- 
bered not  how  long."  We  have  not  yet  learned 
its  authorship,  but  it  seems  plainly  to  bear  marks 
of  a  woman's  hand. 


i 


The  Light  of  the  World.  23 


THE   LIGHT   OF   THE  WORLD. 

The  pearly,  purple  clearness 

Of  heaven's  gate  at  morn, 
Through  closed  eyelids  interwove 

With  dreamings  of  the  dawn  ; 
And  down  the  gleaming,  shadowy  ways, 

In  long,  low  light  withdrawn, 
I  saw  the  young  hours  brightening  back 

Far  off  where  I  was  born. 
All  peach  and  apple  blossom, 

With  promise  and  delight, 
A  heaven  of  cloudless  sun  by  day, 

And  golden  stars  by  night. 
Bright  lay  the  way  before  me,     • 

And  brighter  to  its  close  ; 
The  farther  future  ever  lit 

With  deeper  tints  of  rose  ; 
Till  where,  amid  the  western  heaven 

The  glory  overflows. 
Now,  standing  at  that  western  gate, 

Looking  back  whence  I  came, 


24  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

Those  long,  gray,  desert  pathways 
Could  never  be  the  same — 

Behind  me  all  in  shadow, 
Before  me  all  aflame. 


Rose  the  ideas  of  youth  again, 

With  grand  and  glorious  eyes, 
The  visions  of  immortal  things, 

And  works  that  should  arise. 
Large  talents  feeling  for  the  air 

Life  bursting  into  song  ; 
The  keen  and  dauntless  spirit 

In  hope  and  purpose  strong, 
For  labour  in  the  vineyard, 

Or  battle  against  wrong. 
Deep,  'deep  into  the  morning 

Dreaming,  for  life  was  long. 
Ah  !  full  and  fair  the  shoots  of  spring 

Waved  over  all  the  plain  ; 
Now  come  the  harvest  angels — 

Where  is  the  golden  grain  ? 
O  Life,  of  all  thy  working  day 

Does  only  this  remain  ? 


The  Light  of  the  World.  25 

Of  torn  and  tangled  fragments 
Not  one  without  a  stain  ? 


The  Dead  stood  up  before  me, 

Once  more  as  they  had  been, 
My  own  to  love  and  cherish 

In  daily  dearness  seen  ; 
Sweet  faces  that  all  silently 

With  my  wild  moods  had  pleaded, 
Whose  unreproachful  sadness 

Fell  on  me  then  unheeded ; 
Who  looked  to  me  for  sunshine, 

And  found  not  what  they  needed. 
"  Come  back  to  me,  one  little  hour, 

And  I  will  tend  you  so ; 
Oh  !  if  you  were  but  mine  again, 

I  would  not  let  you  go  ; 
If  I  had  known  you  would  have  died  !- 

Too  late !  too  late,  I  know  !" 

The  cold  hand  shook  not  in  my  tears, 

No  eyelid  flushed  or  fell ; 
They  spake  in  calm,  clear  voices, 

"  We  rest  and  we  are  well ; 
3 


2  b  Christies  ad  Par  tarn. 

All  is  forgiven,  long  ago  ; 

With  thee  we  may  not  dwell ! 
They  passed  away  and  out  of  sight 

Ere  I  could  say  "  Farewell." 

And  there  I  saw  the  neighbor, 

Uncordial  and  constrained, 
Whom  I  had  coldly  welcomed, 

And  stiffly  entertained  ; 
Absent  and  fretting  all  the  time 

To  be  so  long  detained. 
I  knew  the  hidden  sorrows  now 

That  made  her  shy  and  cold, 
The  cares  she  would  so  willingly 

Into  my  ears  have  told, 
The  yearning  for  the  sympathy 

I  would  not  now  withhold, 
But  now  it  was  not  needed — 

I  guessed  it  not  of  old. 

And  ever)'  beggar  in  the  street 
I  ever  had  passed  by, — 

O  stay  that  I  may  help  you  now ! 
But  they  made  no  reply. 


The  Light  of  the  World.  27 

Then  I  knew  what  it  was  to  beg, 

And  no  man  heed  my  cry, 
I  wept  aloud  for  anguish, — 

None  stopped  to  ask  me  why. 


And  then  I  saw  One  standing 

In  the  December  night, 
With  bare  feet  on  the  frozen  ground, 

And  in  His  hand  a  light ; 
The  wondrous  Face  was  turned  this  way 

Full  in  the  lantern  shine, 
Under  the  thorns,  the  deep  eyes  looked 

Their  message  into  mine. 
As  there  He  knocked  and  waited 

Before  a  close-shut  door, 
With  withered,  red-leaved  creepers, 

And  tall  dry  weeds  grown  o'er ; 
No  stir,  no  answer  from  within, 

Yet  knocking  evermore. 
Ah  !  I  remembered  not  how  long 

I  turned  away  and  slept, 
While  under  the  cold  stars,  all  night, 

His  patient  watch  He  kept ; 


28  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Though  all  the  yearning  angels 

Were  wearied  out  and  wept. 
"  Here  am  I,  nor  will  I  depart 

Until  thou  let  me  in ; 
The  Heavens  are  far  behind  me, 

One  human  soul  to  win  ; 
That  thou  mayst  know  My  mercy 

Is  greater  than  thy  sin." 


"  Light  of  the  world  !"  I  know  thee  now, 

That  might  have  been  mine  own ; 
And  I  have  chosen  darkness  ; 

Now  darkness  cometh  on. 
And  it  is  I  must  call  in  vain, 

"  The  Lord  of  light  is  gone  ?" 
Then  in  despair  unto  the  winds 

The  door  I  opened  wide ; 
And  lo !  the  same  as  ever 

That  Bright  One  stood  beside, 
With  the  same  smile  upon  Thy  face, 

O  Crowned.  Crucified  ! 
As  when  Thy  hand  stretched  o'er  the  sea 

To  Peter,  who  denied. 


The  Light  of  the  World.  29 

I  sank  in  bitter  weeping 

Beside  the  open  door — 
**  O  good  Lord,  give  me  back  one  hour, 

Of  all  that  went  before  !" 
£  heard  a  deep  voice  tolling, 

"  Never  more,  never  more  !" 
On  it  went  echoing  wider 

Down  to  the  gates  of  hell, 
Helpless  and  broken-hearted 

Into  Christ's  arms  I  fell ; 
I  heard  the  angels  saying, 

"  He  doeth  all  things  well." 

"And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them."  And  so 
with  reverent  gaze  we  stand  once  more  where  we 
have  often  loved  to  linger  and  watch  the  small 
hand  tracing  out  the  Scripture,  '"  Behold  I  stand 
at  the  door  and  knock,"  and  we  thank  God,  not 
only  for  the  gracious  call,  but  also  for  the  royal 
artist  gift  by  which  the  loving  Saviour  is  made  a 
living  presence  to  one  of  His  little  ones. 


5* 


CHAPTER    II 


WARNING    AND    INVITATION 

Brawn,  rouse  thee  from  thy  sleep  : 
Wake,  and  o'er  thy  f >  >lly  weep  ; 
Raise  thy  spirit  dark  and  dead  : 
Jesus  waits  His  light  to  shed. 
Be  not  blind  and  foolish  still : 
Called  of  Jesus,  learn  His  will, 
Jesus  calls  from  death  and  night. 
Wake  aud  He  shall  give  thee  light." 

THERE  are  many  familiar  hymns  founded  di- 
rectly upon  the  message  to  the  Laodicean 
church  which  have  long  been  endeared  to  Chris- 
tians of  our  own  and  other  lands,  and  all  thought 
of  their  literary  merits  or  demerits  is  lost  in  the 
rich  treasures  of  association  that  cluster  around 
them. 

Foremost  of  them   all  would  we  place  "  The 
Heavenly    Stranger,"  by   the   Rev.  Joseph   Grigg, 
which  bears  the  date  of  1765.     This  was  first  pub- 
(30) 


Warning  and  Invitation.  3i 

lished  in  a  small  volume  containing  a  few  hymns, 
some  of  which  were  written  when  the  author  was 
a  mere  child.  How  many  veteran  saints  have 
sung  that  well-known  hymn,  Ashamed  of  Jesus," 
without  suspecting  that  the  words  of  their  devo- 
tion first  found  voice  through  a  boy  of  ten  years 
old  or  under. 

Thus  out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  and  sucklings 
is  His  praise  perfected. 

Whatever  may  be  the  worth  of  Grigg's  poetry  in 
a  literary  point  of  view,  these  two  hymns,  the  only 
ones  by  which  he  is  known,  have  a  spiritual  value 
that  cannot  be  estimated,  and  it  will  be  long  be- 
fore they  cease  to  be  a  power  in  the  Christian 
Church. 

We  give  the  verses  as  they  are  found  in  Sir 
Roundell  Palmer's  "  Book  of  Praise." 

Behold  !  a  Stranger's  at  the  door! 
He  gently  knocks,  has  knocked  before, 
Has  waited  long,  is  waiting  still ; 
You  treat  no  other  friend  so  ill. 

But  will  He  prove  a  Friend  indeed  ? 
He  will!  the  verv  Friend  vou  need  ! 


1 


32  Chris  his  ad  Portam. 

The  man  of  Nazareth,  'tis  He, 
With  garments  dyed  at  Calvary. 

'J-    O  lovely  attitude  !     He  stands 

With  melting-  heart  and  laden  hands ! 
O  matchless  kindness !  and  He  shows 
This  matchless  kindness  to  His  foes.   (\/^ 

J    Rise,  touched  with  gratitude  divine  ; 
Turn  out  His  enemy  and  thine, 
Tkat  hateful,  hell-bor-n-«ioaster,  sin, 
And  let  the  Heavenly  Stranger  in. 

If  thou  art  poor,  (and  poor  thou  art,) 
Lo,  He  has  riches  to  impart ; 
Not  wealth,  in  which  mean  avarice  rolls; 
O  better  far!  the  wealth  of  souls! 

Thou'rt  blind  ;   He'll  take  the  scales  away. 
And  let  in  everlasting  day  ; 
Naked  thou  art;  but  He  shall  dress 
Thy  blushing  soul  in  Righteousness. 

Art  thou  a  weeper?     Grief  shall  fly; 
For  who  can  weep  with  Jesus  by  ? 


Warning  and  Invitation.  ^ 

No  terror  shall  thy  hopes  annoy  ; 
No  tear,  except  the  tear  of  joy. 

Admit  Him,  for  the  human  breast 
Ne'er  entertained  so  kind  a  Guest ; 
Admit  Him,  for  you  can't  expel ; 
Where'er  He  comes,  He  comes  to  dwell. 

Admit  Him,  e'er  His  anger  burn  ; 
His  feet  departed,  ne'er  return  ! 
Admit  Him,  or  the  hour  's  at  hand 
When  at  His  door  denied  you'll  stand. 

Yet  know,  (nor  of  the  terms  complain,) 
If  Jesus  comes,  He  comes  to  reign, 
To  reign,  and  with  no  partial  sway 
Thoughts  must  be  slain  that  disobey  ! 

A.  (Sovereign  of  souls  !  Thou  Prince  of  Peace  ! 
O  may  Thy  gentle  reign  increase  ! 
Throw  wide  the  door,  each  willing  mind, 
And  be  His  empire  all  mankind. 

Next  to  "The  Heavenly  Stranger"  we  would 


34  Christus  ad  For  tarn. 

place  a  well-known  hymn  by  Mrs.  Anna  Steele. 
The  home  of  this  gifted  woman  was  in  Broughton, 
Hampshire  county,  England,  and  her  poems  were 
collected  and  published  in  1780,  two  years  after 
her  death,  under  her  fictitious  signature,  Theo- 
dosia.  The  authorship  of  many  of  the  trust  songs 
that  have  been  special  favorites  with  both  Eng- 
lish and  American  churches  for  the  last  century 
was  at  first  hidden  behind  this  nom  de plume. 

"  He  lives,  the  Great  Redeemer  lives," 
"  Dear  Refuge  of  my  weary  soul," 
"  Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss," 

are  familiar  examples,  while  the  following  is  not 
one  of  her  happiest  efforts. 

CHRIST'S   CONDESCENSION. 

And  will  the  Lord  thus  condescend 

To  visit  sinful  worms  ? 
Thus  at  the  door  shall  mercy  stand 

In  all  her  winning"  forms  ? 

Surprising  grace  !  and  shall  my  heart 
Unmoved  and  cold  remain  ? 


Warning  and  Invitation,  35 

Has  this  hard  rock  no  tender  part? 
Must  mercy  plead  in  vain? 

Shall  Jesus  for  admission  sue, 
His  charming  voice  unheard  ? 

And  this  vile  heart,  His  rightful  due 
Remain  forever  barred  ? 

'Tis  sin,  alas  !  with  tyrant  power 

The  lodging  has  possessed  ; 
And  crowds  of  traitors  bar  the  door 

Against  the  Heavenly  Guest. 

Lord,  rise  in  Thy  all  conquering  grace, 

Thy  mighty  power  display  ; 
One  beam  of  glory  from  Thy  face 

Can  drive  my  sin  away. 

Ye  dangerous  inmates,  hence  depart; 

Dear  Saviour  enter  in  ; 
And  guard  the  passage  to  my  heart, 

And  keep  out  every  sin. 


36  Christus  ad  Portarn. 

Many  hymns  may  be  found  containing  this 
figure  of  Christ  knocking  at  the  bolted  door  of  the 
heart,  which,  though  they  have  been  copied  from 
one  compilation  to  another,  are  scarcely  worth  the 
preservation.  They  have  been  sung  in  rude  assem- 
blies upon  the  frontier,  or  wherever  it  has  been 
needful  to  startle  and  arouse  ignorant,  sleeping 
souls.  Often  they  are  colloquial' in  form,  and  are 
distinguished  more  by  strength  than  by  grace  of 
diction ;  but  whatever  of  worth  may  have  marked 
them,  originally,  has  often  been  obscured  or  lost 
through  other  hands  than  those  of  their  unknown 
authors.  A  few  of  these  hymns,  or  detached 
verses,  are  here  inserted,  taken  from  old  and  dis- 
carded hymn-books. 

The  first,  perhaps  the  least  faulty,  is  to  be  ac- 
credited to  the  Hymns  of  Zion. 

Amazing  sight !  the  Saviour  stands 

And  knocks  at  every  door ! 
Ten  thousand  blessings  in  his  hands 

To  satisfy  the  poor. 

"  Behold,"  he  saith,  "  I  bleed  and  die 
To  bring  you  to  my  rest : 


Warning  and  Invitation.  3  7 

Hear,  sinners,  while  I'm  passing  by, 
And  be  forever  blest. 

Will  you  despise  my  bleeding  love, 

And  choose  the  way  to  hell  ? 
Or  in  the  glorious  realms  above, 

With  me  forever  dwell  ? 

Say,  will  you  hear  my  gracious  voice, 
And  have  your  sins  forgiven  ? 

Or  will  you  make  that  wretched  choice, 
And  bar  yourselves  from  heaven  ?" 


In  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs,  compiled  by- 
Reuben  Peaslee  (1829),  will  be  found  the  two 
hymns,  beginning  respectively,  "  Where,  saith  the 
mourner,  is  this  Christ  ?"  and  "  Come,  trembling 
soul,  forget  your  fear."  The  latter  appears,  in 
the  same  book,  in  another  form.  We  quote  from 
the  first  the  following  stanzas : 

I  wait,  saith  Jesus,  at  your  door, 

With  love  that  knows  no  bound  nor  shore, 

And  far  more  free  am  I  to  give 

Than  you  are  ready  to  receive. 

4 


38  Chris  tus  ad  Port  am. 

Truly  I  die,  I  mourn,  I  bleed, 
I  weep,  I  wait,  promise  and  plead, 
Laboring  for  you,  all  dressed  in  gore, 
What  can  I  do  or  offer  more  ? 


There  are  two  similar  hymns  in  the  Original  and 
Select  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs  for  the  use  of 
Christian  Societies,  John  Tiebout,  New  York,  1807, 
the  first  of  which,  entitled,  "  The  intercession  of 
Christ,"  ("  Now  the  Saviour  stands  a  pleading,") 
we  shall  not  quote ;  the  second  is  given  below : 

SINNERS    INVITED  TO    CHRIST. 

Sinners,  behold  the  Saviour  stands 
With  pardon  in  his  bleeding  hands, 
To  court  you  from  the  jaws  of  hell, 
That  you  in  perfect  bliss  may  dwell. 

His  spirit  with  its  healing  power 
Stands  knocking,  pleading  at  your  door, 
He'll  bind  the  wounds  that  sin  has  made, 
And  heal  the  sick,  and  raise  the  dead. 

O,  stifle  not  the  heavenly  voice, 
But  hear,  and  in  His  name  rejoice, 


Warning  and  Invitation.  39 

Attend  the  call,  His  love  embrace, 
And  taste  the  sweetness  of  His  grace. 

He'll  be  your  Father  and  your  Friend, 
Your  heart  shall  sing,  your  sorrows  end  ; 
He'll  feed  you  with  immortal  love, 
And  bring  you  to  his  courts  above. 


In  Divine  Hymns,  collected  by  Joshua  Smith 
and  others,  with  additions  by  Wm.  Northup,  Nor- 
wich, Conn.,  181 1,  we  find  the  hymn,  entitled,  "A 
warning  to  sinners  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come," 
("When  pity  prompts,  etc.")  An  extract  from  the 
hymn  is  given  in  the  Village  Hymns,  beginning, 
"  Now  is  the  time,  the  accepted  hour,"  and  is  there 
accredited  to  Cowper.  The  verses  are  not  to  be 
found  in  the  Olney  Collection. 

Now  is  the  time,  the  accepted  hour, 

O,  sinners,  come  away, 
The  Saviour's  knocking  at  your  door, 

Arise  without  delay ! 

O,  don't  refuse  to  give  Him  room, 
Lest  mercy  should  withdraw  : 


40  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

He'll  then  in  robes  of  vengeance  come 
To  execute  his  law. 

Then  where,  poor  mortals,  will  you  be, 

If  destitute  of  grace, 
When  you  your  injured  Judge  shall  see, 

And  stand  before  his  face  ! 

O  !  could  you  shun  that  dreadful  sight, 
How  would  you  wish  to  fly 

To  the  dark  shades  of  endless  night, 
From  that  all-searching  eye  ! 

The  dead  awaked  must  all  appear, 
And  you  among  them  stand, 

Before  the  great  impartial  bar, 
Arraigned  at  Christ's  left  hand. 

"No  yearning  bowels ;   pity  then 

Shall  not  affect  my  heart ; 
No,  I  shall  surely  say,  "  Amen," 

When  Christ  bids  you  depart. 

Let  not  these  warnings,  be  in  vain, 

But  lend  a  listening  ear, 
Lest  you  should  meet  them  all  again 

When  wrapt  in  keen  despair. 


Warning  and  Invitation.  41 

The  same  volume  contains  a  longer  poem,  en- 
titled "  The  Heavenly  Courtier,"  and  seems  to 
unite  some  of  the  figures  of  the  Canticles  with 
those  of  the  Revelation.  In  the  second  verse,  the 
construction  is  somewhat  involved ;  but,  taken  as 
a  whole,  the  quaintness  and  originality  of  both 
thought  and  expression,  render  the  poem  very 
readable,  reminding  one  a  little  of  Erskine's  "  Gos- 
pel Sonnets,"  though  this  will  be  found  far  pleas- 
anter  than  they,  from  its  simplicity  of  diction,  no 
less  than  its  freedom  of  motion. 

THE  HEAVENLY  COURTIER. 

Let  Christ,  the  glorious  lover, 

Have  everlasting  praise, 
He  cometh  to  discover 

The  riches  of  His  grace  ; 
He  comes  to  wretched  sinners, 

To  woo  Himself  a  bride  ; 
Resolving  for  to  win  her, 

And  will  not  be  denied. 

Unwilling  she  discovers 
Herself  for  to  deny, 


42  Christus  ad  For  tarn. 

To  cast  away  her  pleasures, 
And  lay  her  honors  by ; 

To  part  with  every  notion 
That  puffs  her  up  with  pride  ; 

And  take  Him  for  her  portion, 

*  And  be  His  loving  bride. 

He  calls  aloud  unto  her, 
"  Pursue  your  ways  no  more  ;" 
She  thinks  it  will  undo  her, 

To  part  with  all  her  store  ; 
She  willingly  refuses 

To  yield  unto  His  will, 
And  in  her  heart,  she  chooses 

Her  former  lovers  still. 

She  bolts  the  door  upon  Him, 
And  bids  the  Lord  depart ; 

She  will  not  serve  His  honor, 
Nor  let  Him  have  her  heart : 

Yes,  Jesus  loves  the  sinner, 
And  will  not  leave  the  door, 

But  cries  "  Oh,  wretched  creature- 
Reject  my  grace  no  more. 


Warning  and  Invitation.         43 

Behold  my  matchless  fulness ! 

Arise,  and  let  me  in ; 
How  can  you  be  so  cruel, 

To  bar  your  heart  with  sin  ? 
If  calls  and  invitation 

Will  not  excite  your  love, 
Prepare  for  condemnation, 

For  I  will  not  remove." 

He  then  displays  His  power, 

By  an  Almighty  word ; 
He  threatens  to  devour, 

And  shows  a  flaming  sword  ; 
She  now  begins  to  tremble, 

At  what  she  sees  and  hears, 
And  fain  she  would  be  humble 

And  wash  her  crimes  with  tears. 

She  now  begins  to  languish, 

And  none  can  her  relieve, 
Her  heart  is  full  of  anguish 

To  find  she  can't  believe. 
Her  hopes  are  now  departed, 

And  left  her  full  of  woe, 


44  Christus  ad  Portam. 

With  all  the  broken  hearted 
She  cries,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

But  Jesus  has  compassion, 

Still  moving  in  his  breast, 
Intends  to  give  salvation, 

Unto  the  souls  distressed. 
One  glimpse  of  love  and  power, 

Makes  her  forget  her  pain, 
She  cries,  "  O,  happy  hour ; 

Is  this  the  lovely  Lamb  ? 

Is  He  whom  I  rejected, 

Stooped  down  to  me  so  low  ? 
Goodness,  but  unexpected, 

It  hardly  can  be  true :" 
And  still  she  cries,  now  fervent, 

"  Lord,  don't  thy  mercy  hide, 
May  I  become  a  servant, 

And  fit  to  be  a  bride." 

The  marriage  is  made  ready, 
The  parties  are  agreed, 

The  holy  Son  of  David, 
And  Adam's  wretched  seed. 


Warning  and  Invitation.         45 

The  sinner  is  attired 

With  raiment  clean  and  white ; 
Her  sins  are  freely  pardoned, 

And  she  her  Lord's  delight. 

They  eat  and  drink  together, 

And  mutually  embrace ; 
Both  saints  and  angels  wonder 

At  the  surprising  grace  ; 
This  union  shall  continue, 

Forevermore  the  same, 
And  nothing  part  asunder 

The  Christian  and  the  Lamb. 


In  this  connection  may  be  given  two  more  se- 
lections, both  paraphrases  of  the  whole  address  to 
the  Church  of  Laodicea..  The  first  is  by  the  Rev. 
John  Newton,  and  taken  from  the  Olney  Hymns  : 

CHRIST'S   ADDRESS   TO   THE    CHURCH 
OF   LAODICEA. 

Hear,  what  the  Lord,  the  great  Amen, 
The  true  and  faithful  Witness,  says  ; 

He  formed  the  vast  creation's  plan, 
And  searches  all  our  hearts  and  ways. 


46 


Christies  ad  Port  am,. 


To  some  he  speaks,  as  once  of  old, 
"  I  know  thee,  thy  profession's  vain, 

Since  thou  art  neither  hot  nor  cold, 
I'll  spit  thee  from  me,  with  disdain. 

Thou  boastest, '  I  am  wise  and  rich, 
Increased  in  goods,  and  nothing  need, 

And  dost  not  know  thou  art  a  wretch, 
Naked  and  poor  and  blind  and  dead. 


Yet  while  I  thus  rebuke,  I  love, 
My  message  is  in  mercy  sent, 

That  thou  may'st  my  compassion  prove, 
I  can  forgive,  if  thou  repent. 

Wouldst  thou  be  truly  rich  and  wise, 
Come  buy  my  gold  in  fire  well  try'd, 

My  ointment,  to  anoint  thine  eyes, 
My  robe,  thy  nakedness  to  hide. 

See  at  thy  door  I  stand  and  knock, 
Poor  sinner  shall  I  wait  in  vain  ? 

Quickly  thy  stubborn  heart  unlock, 
That  I  may  enter  with  my  train. 


Invitation  and  Warning.  47 

Thou  canst  not  entertain  a  King  ; 

Unworthy  thou  of  such  a  Guest ! 
But  I  my  own  provision  bring, 

To  make  thy  soul  a  heavenly  feast." 


The  following  is  from  a  collection  of  poems  by 
"  Charlotte  Elisabeth,"  (Mrs  Tonna,)  born  in  Nor- 
wich, England,  1790,  and  better  known  by  her 
prose  than  by  her  poetry  : 

LAODICEA. 

Cease  ye  from  man's  delusive  word, 

Ye  fools,  return  again, 
And  hear  the  all-creative  Lord, 

Th'  Omnipotent,  Amen. 

"  The  secret  sin  that  taints  thy  breast, 

Thine  outward  deeds  reveal, 
Would  thou  wert  cold,  a  foe  confest, 

Or  hot  in  loyal  zeal. 

"  Thy  God  rejects  the  lifeless  prayer, 
And  loathes  the  hollow  praise  ; 

And,  mid  the  wealth  thy  lips  declare, 
Thy  naked  want  surveys. 


48  Christus  ad  Portam. 

"  Thou  say'st,  '  No  higher  grace  I  need  ; 

Behold  how  rich  I  am  !' 
Oh,  that  thy  darkened  eye  could  read 

Thy  penury  and  shame. 

"  Poor  wretched  soul !  deceived  and  blind, 

Beware  !  I  counsel  thee 
To  buy  thee  gold  in  fire  refined, 

And  raiment  pure,  of  me. 

"  Anoint  thine  eyes,  behold  the  rod, 

In  chastening  mercy  sent ; 
Oh,  hear  the  deep  rebuke  of  God, 

Be  zealous  and  repent. 

"  Through  many  a  long  rebellious  year, 

I  at  the  door  have  stood, 
And  called  the  slumbering  heart  to  hear, 

The  Saviour's  pleading  blood 

"  And  yet  I  wait,  and  yet,  once  more, 

Repeat  the  gracious  cry, 
Thou  loitering  soul,  unclose  the  door ; 

I  bring  salvation  nigh. 


Invitation  and  Warning.  49 

"  Upon  my  Father's  lofty  throne, 
With  victory  crowned  I  shine ; 

Me  for  thy  Prince  and  Saviour  own, 
My  glory  shall  be  thine." 

No  doubt  many  more  extracts  might  be  made 
from  the  various  collections  of  revival  hymns  and 
melodies,  that  would  be  found  to  have  a  bearing 
upon  the  subject;  but  enough  have  been  given  to 
show  that  it  is  not  to  Attic  salt,  but  to  the  strong 
savor  of  piety  which  pervades  them,  that  they  owe 
their  preservation. 

Even  the  paraphrases  given,  by  such  well-known 
writers  as  Newton  and  Charlotte  Elisabeth,  sound 
weak  and  labored  when  we  turn  to  our  King 
James's  version  and  read  : 

"  And  unto  the  angel  of  the  Church  of  the  Lao- 
diceans  write :  These  things  saith  the  Amen, 
the  faithful  and  true  witness,  the  beginning  of  the 
creation  of  God ; 

"  I  know  thy  works  that  thou  art  neither  cold  nor 
hot.  I  would  thou  wert  cold  or  hot.  So  then 
because  thou  art  lukewarm,  and  neither  cold  nor 
hot,  I  will  spew  thee  out  of  my  mouth. 

"  Because  thou  sayest,  I  am  rich  and  increased 
5 


5<D  Chris tus  ad  Portam. 

with  goods,  and  have  need  of  nothing ;  and  know- 
est  not  that  thou  art  wretched,  and  miserable,  and 
poor,  and  blind,  and  naked  : 

"  I  counsel  thee  to  buy  of  me  gold  tried  in  the 
fire,  that  thou  mayest  be  rich ;  and  white  raiment 
that  thou  mayest  be  clothed,  and  that  the  shame 
of  thy  nakedness  do  not  appear ;  and  anoint  thine 
eyes  with  eye-salve,  that  thou  mayest  see. 

"  As  many  as  I  love  I  rebuke  and  chasten  :  be 
zealous,  therefore,  and  repent. 

"  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock  :  if  any 
man  hear  my  voice  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come 
in  to  him,  and  will  sup  with  him,  and  he  with  me. 

"  To  him  that  overcometh  will  I  grant  to  sit  with 
me  in  my  throne,  even  as  I  also  overcame,  and  am 
set  down  with  my  Father  in  his  throne. 

"  He  that  hath  an  ear,  let  him  hear  what  the 
Spirit  saith  unto  the  churches." 


CHAPTER  III 


%  POETRY   OF   THE   PRESENT. 

Christ,  He  requires  still,  whersoere  He  comes, 
To  feed  or  lodge,  to  have  the  hest  of  roomes. 
Give  Him  the  choice,  grant  Him  the  nobler  part. 
Of  all  the  house  ;  the  best  of  all's  the  heart. 

HERRICK. 

AN  examination  of  some   of  the  collections 
of  sacred  verse,  published  during  the  past 
ten  years,  reveals  a  goodly  number  of  poems 
founded  directly  upon  Rev.  3  :  20,  or   the  Fifth 
Chapter  of  the  Canticles. 

We  look  vainly  through  the  hymns  of  Dod- 
dridge, or  Cowper,  or  Watts,  or  Montgomery,  for 
any  representation  of  this  subject.  Even  George 
Herbert,  who  wrote  in  an  age  when  conceits  and 
figures  alone  could  satisfy  the  public  taste,  and 
who  converted  every  fact  of  the  church's  ritual 

(SO 


52 


Christus  ad  For  tarn. 


into  a  trope,  seems  to  have  missed,  altogether,  this 
beautiful  Biblical  illustration.  Perhaps  the  senti- 
mental taste  of  our  age,  which  runs,  even  in  reli- 
gion, to  pictorial  display,  elaborating  the  bodily 
form  and  dress  of  holy  thought,  rather  than  vital- 
izing its  spirit,  may  have  wrought  for  us  one 
good  result,  in  utilizing  the  multitudinous 
figures  of  Scripture,  and  so  making  even  the 
most  careless  Bible-student  familiar  with  much  of 
its  rich,  oriental  imagery.  We  are  very  grateful 
to  the  authors  who  give  us  these  exquisite  render- 
ings of  our  texts,  and  yet  we  are  not  satisfied  with 
their  works,  as  a  class.  TJie  poems  are  beautiful 
as  poems,  and  we  can  hardly  account  for  our  dis- 
satisfaction, unless  it  may  be  that  they  aim  to  be 
hymns,  also;  but,  falling  just  short  of  their  aim, 
remain  only  beautiful  poems ;  nothing  more,  after 
all.  This  might  be  said  of  many  of  the  extracts 
with  which  this  chapter  is  filled ;  though,  of  course, 
Jean  Ingelow's  "  Sermon "  is  excepted  from  all 
such  criticism,  since  that  rare  poem  .amply  fulfils 
all  its  aims. 

After  reading  some  of  this  more  finished  modern 
verse,  one  might  turn  back  to  Griggs'  unpretend- 
ing, heartful  hymn,  with  something  of  the  relief 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  5  3 

felt,  when  stepping  from  a  heated,  crowded  con- 
cert room,  he  breathes  again  the  clear,  cold  air  of 
a  starry  winter's  night. 

The  following  poem  is  from  Hymns  and  Lyrics 
for  the  Seasons  and  Saints'  Days  of  the  Church, 
by  the  Rev.  Gerard  Moultrie,  M.  A. 

MAN   OF    SORROWS. 
WAYFARER. 

Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock, 
Hear  my  voice,  thy  heart  unlock  ; 
It  is  I  who  speak  to  thee, 
I  would  come  in  and  sup  with  thee,  and 
thou  with  me. 

SOUL. 
Who  is  this  that  stands  alone. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  night? 
The  rain  falls  fast,  the  night  winds  moan, 
My  joy  has  fled  with  evening  light  ; 
The  world's  day  waxes  old,  the  stars  are 

dim. 
Who  says  He  comes  to  sup  with  me  and  I 
with  Him  ? 


5  4  Ch  ristus  ad  For  tarn. 

WAYFARER. 

Sorrow-burdened  child  of  sin, 

Open  quickly,  it  is  I  ! 
See  my  feet  and  take  me  in, 
They  are  bleeding  wearily  ; 
Pierced   through   and   bleeding   are   they ; 

haste  and  see  ; 
I  would  come  in  and  sup  with  thee,  and 
thou  with  me. 

SOUL. 
Yes,  the  road  is  old  and  rough, 

Narrow,  strewn  with  many  a  thorn ; 
I  have  tried  it  oft  enough, 

My  feet  too  are  pierced  and  torn  ; 
I  am  as  Thou  art.     How  say'st  Thou  to  me 
That  Thou  wilt  come  and  sup  with  me  and 
I  with  Thee  ? 

WAYFARER. 

Heavy  laden,  dim  of  sight, 

Child  of  Adam,  loose  the  door, 

Even  through  the  shades  of  night, 
See  my  hands  how  they  implore  ; 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  55 

For  they  are  pierced  and  bleeding  all  for 

thee, 
Thus  would  I  come  and  sup  with  thee,  and 

thou  with  me. 


SOUL. 
Wounded  hands  and  aching  brow, 
Since  the  hour  when  Adam  fell, 
Are  the  lot  of  man  below  ; 

Each  man  feels  it — ah,  how  well ! 
Thou    art    but    one    of   us    who    claim'st 

to  be, 
Both  guest  and  giver,  and  to  come  and  sup 
with  me ! 

WAYFARER. 

Yes,  as  thou  art,  so  am  I ! 

Son  of  man,  dost  thou  repine  ? 
Doth  thy  brow  ache  ?  Come,  draw  nigh, 
Raise  thine  eyes,  and  look  at  mine. 
Was  ever  sorrow  like  my  sorrow  ?  See 
With  what  a  festal  wreath   I  come  to  sup 
with  thee. 


56  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

SOUL. 
Fathomless  eyes  of  awful  love, 

Beaming  from  the  thorn-crowned  brow, 
Tell  me  who  that  garland  wove — 
Strange  Wayfarer,  who  art  Thou  ? 
I  dread,  yet  know  Thee    not ;  oh  !  show  to 

me, 
Whence  comes  the  banquet  which  my  lips 
shall  share  with  Thee. 

WAYFARER. 

The  shadows  break,  and  morning  tide 

Reddens  the  east  with  dawn  at  hand. 
I  lift  the  veil, — Behold  my  side  ! 
Do  I  yet  unadmitted  stand  ? 
Be  not  afraid.     'Tis  I  who  speak  to  thee  ; 
I  will  come  in  and  sup  with  thee,  and  thou 
with  me. 

Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock  ; 
Hear  nry  voice,  thy  heart  unlock  ■ 
It  is  I  who  speak  to  thee, 
I  will  come  in  and  sup  with   thee  and 
thou  with  me. 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  5  7 

Bonar's  Lyra  Consolatioms  contains  the  follow- 
ing "  Night  Song,"  with  the  initials  attached. 
Nothing  further  is  known  of  its  authorship.  The 
poem  throughout  is  warm  and  full  of  feeling. 


THE   NIGHT  SONG. 

Open  to  Me,  my  sister, 

My  dove,  my  undefiled  ! 

Fair,  solitary  lily 

Of  all  this  thorny  wild. 

Oh,  let  Me  see  thy  countenance, 

Oh,  let  Me  hear  thy  voice  ; 

For  pleasant  are  thy  tone,  thy  glance  ; 

They  make  My  heart  rejoice. 

Open  to  Me,  my  sister  : 

Chill  is  the  faint  moonlight  ; 

My  head  is  filled  with  dew  damp, 

My  locks  with  drops  of  night. 

Thou  know'st  not  thy  Beloved's  voice, 

His  knocking  at  thy  door  ; 

Strange  on  thy  ear  His  pleadings  fall, 

They  melt  thy  heart  no  more. 


58  Christies  ad  Portam. 

Open  to  Me,  my  sister  ! 

Look  on  Me  now,  and  see 

What  I  have  braved  in  battle, 

And  all  for  love  of  thee. 

The  thorny  crown  my  visage  marred, 

The  sharp  spear  pierced  my  side  ; 

The  nails  my  hands  and  feet  have  scarred, 

My  wounds  were  deep  and  wide. 

Open  to  Me,  my  sister  ! 

I  love,  I  linger  yet  ; 

While  fast  the  moon  is  waning, 

And  stars  begin  to  set. 

When  o'er  yon  hills  to  thee  I  sped, 

My  step  was  glad  and  fleet ; 

But  sad  and  slow  will  be  the  tread 

Of  my  retiring  feet. 

Open  to  Me,  my  sister ! 

Oh  !  wilt  thou  not  invite 

The  world's  .outcast  wayfarer 

To  tarry  for  a  night  ? 

The  mountain  foxes  have  their  holes, 

The  sky  birds  have  their  nest, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  59 

But  save  in  thy  surrendered  soul 

I  have  not  where  to  rest.  A.  R.  c. 


In  the  Lyra  Messianica,  edited  by  Rev.  Orby 
Shipley,  is  the  following  poem  of  H.  N.  Oxenham's, 
taken  from  The  Sentence  of  Kairies,  Shrimpton, 
1854,  which,  for  Want  of  the  dramatic  element, 
suffers  a  little  in  comparison  with  the  last  two. 

THE   HEAVENLY   STRANGER. 

A  STRANGER  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

Before  the  door  He  stood ; 
His  locks  are  drenched  with  dews  of  night, 

His  raiment  stained  with  blood. 

A  torch  in  nail-pierced  hand  He  bore, 

No  earthly  sun  so  bright ; 
A  stranger  at  th'  unopened  door 

He  knocked  the  livelong  night. 

The  cruel  cincture  o'er  his  brow, 

Woven  of  thorns,  is  bound  ; 
Tears  from  His  eyes  incessant  flow, 

Like  rain  upon  the  ground. 


60  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Not  for  the  chill  night-dews  He  wept, 

Not  for  the  thorny  crown  ; 
But  that  His  own,  His  loved  ones  slept 

And  left  Him  all  alone. 

The  sheep  will  hear  the  shepherd's  cry, 
The  hen  can  call  her  brood, 

Yet  to  His  voice  came  no  reply, — 
Shepherd  whose  name  is  Good. 

The  flowers  unfold  them  to  the  sun, 

Some  radiant  grace  to  win  ; 
The  livelong  night  that  torch  burnt  on, 
.  Yet  all  was  dark  within. 


The  next  example  is  from  the  Hymns  for  Di- 
vine Worship,  compiled  for  the  New  Methodist 
Co?inexion,  Wm.  Cooke,  London,  and  bears  the  sig- 
nature, J.  L.,  1837. 

HEREIN   IS   LOVE. 
Doth  He  who  came  the  lost  to  seek, 
To  save  the  soul  benighted, — 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  6 1 

Doth  He  entreat  with  earnest  voice, 

And  shall  His  love  be  slighted? 
His  call  to  every  human  heart 
To  bid  unholy  thoughts  depart, 
And  as  its  Lord  receive  Him  ? 

Doth  the  great  Saviour  stand  and  call  ? 

Shall  we  remain  unheeding  ? 
Doth  He  repeat  His  kind  request  ? 

Can  we  withstand  the  pleading  ? 
That  faithful  Friend,  His  life  who  gave, 
From   sin's   dread   bonds,  —  from  death  to 

save  ! 
O  let  us  turn  and  hear  Him. 

He  bids  us  all  obey  and  live, 

God's  word  of  love  repeating  ; 
Oh  let  us  not  the  call  refuse ! 

Our  Judge !  we  yet  shall  meet  Him  ! 
Great  Source  of  Good  !  Thy  grace  impart, 
That  now,  at  length,  each  wandering  heart 
May  for  its  Lord  receive  Him. 

For  strength  and  individuality  of  expression, 
perhaps  the  following  poem  by  Herbert  Kynas- 
6 


62  Christies  ad  Portam. 

ton,  D.D.,  excels  any  of  the  preceding.  It  has 
proved  itself  a  favorite  with  collectors,  having 
found  its  way  into  several  volumes  of  sacred  verse, 
and  is  credited  to  Occasional  Hymns. 


THE   MORNING   WATCH.  //*/f 

The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand, 

There  are  signs  in  the  heaven,  and  signs  in 
the  land, 

In  the  wavering  earth,  and  the  drouth  of 
the  sea — 

But  He  stands  and  He  knocks,  sinner,  near- 
er to  thee. 


His  night-winds  but  whisper  until  the  day- 
break 

To  the  Bride,  for  in  slumber  her  heart  is 
awake ; 

He  must  knock  at  the  sleep  where  the  rev- 
elers toss, 

With  the  dint  of  the  nails  and  the  shock  of 
the  cross. 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  63 

Look  out  at  the  casement,  see  how  He  ap- 
pears, 

Still  weeping  for  thee  all  Gethsemane's 
tears  ; 

Ere  they  plait  Him  earth's  thorns,  in  its  sol- 
itude crowned 

With  the  drops  of  the  night  and  the  dews 
of  the  ground. 

Will  you  wait  ?     Will  you  slumber  until  He 

is  gone, 
Till  the  beam  of  the  timber  cry  out  to  the 

stone  ; 
Till  He  shout  at  thy  sepulchre,  tear  it  apart, 
And  knock  at  thy  dust,  Who  would  speak 

to  thy  heart  ? 

In  this  connection  belong  three  poems  of  Amer- 
ican birth.  The  first  of  these,  which  is  probably 
better  known  to  the  general  reader  than  any  other 
in  this  chapter,  is  from  the  pen  of  Bishop  Arthur 
Cleveland  Coxe,  LL.D.,  the  Keble  of  the  American 
Episcopal  Church.  It  is  one  of  Dr.  Coxe's  hap- 
piest efforts,  and  the  words  deserve  to  be  wedded, 


64 


Christ  us  ad  Portam. 


as  they  have  been,  to  sweet  and  appropriate  mu- 
sic.    It  is  entitled  : 


4 


THE  HEART'S  SONG. 


In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List  thy  bosom  door  ; 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore. 
Say  not,  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating  ; 

'Tis  thy  heart  of  sin  ; 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks  and  crieth, 

"  Rise  and  let  me  in  !  " 

Death  comes  down,  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 
Jesus  waiteth,  waiteth,  waiteth, 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth, 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 


Then  'tis  thine  to  stand  entreating 
Christ  to  let  thee  in  ; 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  65 

At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  alas  !  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot  ? 
Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee, 

But  He  knows  thee  not ! 


The    second   is    a   sonnet   by   Grace   Webster 
Hinsdale. 

CHRIST  KNOCKING  AT  THE  HEART. 

A  WOUNDED   hand  doth   knock   upon   thy 
door, 
A  gentle,  loving  one,  with  bleeding  brow, 
Stands  waiting  for  thy  leave  to  enter  now, 

That  to  thy  sin-sick  soul  He. may  restore 

The  bloom  of  virtue's  health  forevermore. 
He  once  upon  the  cross  His  head  did  bow, 
That  thy  poor,  sinful  soul  he  might  endow 

With  all  His  heavenly  grace.    He  waits  to 
pour 
His  light  divine  into  thy  darkened  eye ; 

He  waits  to  cheer  thy  soul  with  music  sweet. 


66  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  His  call  ?     Lo  !   from 
the  sky, 
Angelic  ones  look  down  to  see  thee  meet 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  friend.  No  longer  try 
To  bar  thy  door,  but  rise,  thy  Lord  to  greet. 

•  Though  the  last  of  the  American  poems  here 
quoted  introduces  other  Biblical  figures  than  that 
of  which  we  treat,  it  is  gladly  given  entire,  remem- 
bering, with  sorrow,  that  the  gifted  author  has 
sung  her  last  earthly  song.  Phcebe  Cary  did  not, 
during  her  life,  achieve  so  wide  a  literary  repu- 
tation as  her  sister  Alice ;  writing  much  less, 
her  poems  naturally  preserve  a  more  uniform 
value.  Very  few,  if  any,  should  be  dropped  out, 
through  demerit,  from  an  edition  of  her  works, 
while  some  seem  well-nigh  deserving  of  immor- 
tality. Such  a  poem  as  that  on  drawing  "  water 
from  the  wells  of  salvation,"  "  I  had  drunk  with 
lip  unsated,"  should  not  perish;  and  her  "One 
sweetly  solemn  thought"  is  known  and  loved  and 
sung  not  only  throughout  our  land,  but,  so  the 
legend  runs,  has  been  one  of  God's  chosen  means 
of  grace  even  at  the  antipodes.     When  the  books 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  67 

are  opened  before  "the  great  white  throne"  of 
which  she  sang,  what  astonishment  and  joy  will 
overwhelm  humble,  self- distrustful  souls  like 
Phoebe  Cary,  or  like  the  author  of  "  My  faith 
looks  up  to  Thee,"  who  carried  so  long  his  un- 
used and  unvalued  manuscript,  to  learn  of  the 
multitudes,  unnumbered  of  man,  who  have  come 
"  home  to  their  Father's  house"  from  the  East 
and  from  the  West,  and  from  the  North  and  from 
the  South,  summoned,  guided  and  blessed  by 
their  inspired  minstrelsy. 

YE  DID  IT  UNTO  ME. 

Sinner,  careless,  proud  and  cold, 
Straying  from  the  sheltering  fold, 
Hast  thou  thought  how  patiently 
The  Good  Shepherd  follows  thee, 
Still  with  tireless,  toiling  feet 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  heat ; 
Thought  upon  that  yearning  breast 
Where  He  fain  would  have  thee  rest, 
And  of  all  its  tender  pain 
While  He  seeks  for  thee  in  vain  ? 


68 


Christies  ad  Port  am. 


Dost  thou  know  what  He  must  feel, 
Making,  vainly,  His  appeal, 
When  He  knocketh  at  thy  door, 
Present  entrance  to  implore — 
Saying,  "  Open  unto  Me, 
I  will  come  and  sup  with  thee  ;" 
Forced  to  turn  away  at  last 
From  the  portal  shut  and  fast  ? 
Wilt  thou,  careless,  slumber  on 
Even  till  thy  Lord  has  gone, 
Heedless  of  His  high  behest, 
His  desire  to  be  thy  Guest? 


Sinner,  sinner,  dost  thou  know 

What  it  is  to  slight  Him  so  ? 

Sitting,  careless,  by  the  sea, 

While  He  calleth— "  Follow  Me:" 

Sleeping,  thoughtless,  unaware 

Of  His  agonizing  prayer, 

While  thy  sins  His  soul  o'erpower, 

And  thou  canst  not  watch  one  hour  ? 

Our  infirmities  He  bore, 

And  our  mortal  form  He  wore ; 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  69 

Yea,  our  Lord  was  made  to  be 
Here,  in  all  things,  like  as  we, 
And  that  pardon  we  might  win 
He,  the  sinless,  bare  our  sin  ! 

Sinner,  though  He  comes  no  more, 

Faint  and  fasting  to  thy  door, 

His  disciples  here,  instead, 

Thou  canst  give  the  cup  and  bread  ; 

If  His  lambs  thou  dost  not  feed, 

He  it  is,  that  feels  their  need, 

He,  that  suffers  their  distress, 

Hunger,  thirst  and  weariness ; 

He,  that  loving  them,  again, 

Beareth  all  their  bitter  pain  ! 

Canst  thou,  then,  so  reckless  prove — 

Canst  thou,  dar'st  thou  slight  His  love  ? 

Do  not,  sinner,  for  thy  sake, 
Make  Him  still  the  cross  to  take, 
And  ascend  again  for  thee 
Dark  and  dreadful  Calvary  ! 
Do  not  set  the  crown  of  pain 
On  that  sacred  head  again  ; — 


jo  Christus  ad  Portarn. 

Open  all  afresh  and  wide 
Closed  wounds  in  hands  and  side  ! 
Do  not,  do  not  scorn  His  name, 
Putting  him  to  open  shame ! 

O,  by  all  the  love  He  knew 
For  His  followers,  dear  and  true  ; 
By  the  sacred  tears  He  wept 
At  the  tomb  where  Laz'rus  slept ; 
By  Gethsemane's  bitter  cry, 
That  the  cup  might  pass  him  by ; 
By  that  wail  of  agony, 
"  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  !" 
By  that  last  and  heaviest  stroke, 
When  His  heart  for  sinners  broke, 
•  Do  not  let  Him  lose  the  price 
Of  His  awful  sacrifice. 


This  division  of  the  subject  is  closed  with  a 
portion  of  Jean  Ingelow's  "  Brothers  and  a  Ser- 
mon." We  are  forced  to  omit  the  introduction 
of  the  poem,  and  open  our  quotation  with  the 
brothers'  entrance  to  the  sea-side  church,  where 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  7 1 

the  grand  old  man  was  preaching.  We  make  the 
extract  almost  regretfully,  as  it  seems  nothing  less 
than  vandalism  to  remove  so  rare  a  gem  from  its 
choice  setting,  but  the  whole  poem  is  too  long  to 
be  quoted  here.  As  for  the  Sermon,  which  is 
given  entire,  it  has  not  a  line  to  spare.  It  is  the 
best  temperance  lecture,  the  best  charity  dis- 
course,' the  best  appeal  for  the  erring  and  lost,  the 
best  sermon  to  the  young,  we  have  ever  heard. 
We  consider  it,  without  exception,  the  choicest 
and  best  of  Miss  Ingelow's  poems ';  and  where 
all  are  choice  and  good,  what  more  can  be  said  ? 


FROM  "BROTHERS   AND   A   SERMON." 

And  a  soft  fluttering  stir 
Passed  over  all,  and  every  mother  hushed 
The  babe  beneath  her  shawl,  and  he  turned 

round, 
And  met  our  eyes;  unused  to  diffidence, 
But  diffident  of  his  ;  then  with  a  sigh 
Fronted  the  folk,  lifted  his  grand,  gray  head 
And  said,  as  one   that  pondered  now  the 

words 


72 


C /wist  us  ad  Port  am. 


He  had  been  preaching  on  with  new  sur- 
prise, 

And  found  fresh  marvel  in  their  sound, 
"  Behold  ! 

Behold  !"  saith  He,  "  I  stand  at  the  door 
and  knock !" 


Then  said  the  parson,  "What !  and  shall  He 
wait, 
And  must  he  wait,  not  only  till  we  say, 
1  Good  Lord,  the  house  is  clean,  the  hearth 

is  swept, 
The  children  sleep,  the  mackerel  boats  are 

in, 
And  all  the  nets  are  mended,  therefore  I 
Will  slowly  to  the  door,  and  open  it ;' 
But   must    He  also  wait,  where,  still,   be- 
hold! 
He   stands   and  knocks,  while  we  do   say 

'  Good  Lord, 
The  gentlefolk  are  come  to  worship  here, 
And  I  will  up  and  open  to  Thee  soon  ; 
But  first,  I  pray,  a  little  longer  wait, 
For  I  am  taken  up  with  them  ;  my  eyes, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  73 

Must   needs   regard    the    fashion   of   their 

clothes, 
And  count  the  gains  I  think  to  make  by  them ; 

Forsooth,  they  are  of  much  account,  good 

Lord  ; 
Therefore    have    patience    with    me — wait 

dear  Lord, 
Or  come  again  ?' 

"  What !  must  He  wait  for  THIS— 
For  this  ?  Ay,  He  doth  wait  for  this,  and  still, 
Waiting  for  this,  He,  patient,  raileth  not ; 
Waiting  for  this,  He  saith,  '  Behold  ! 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

11  O,  patient  hand  ! 
Knocking    and    waiting — knocking  in   the 

night, 
When  work  is  done  !  I  charge  you,  by  the  sea 
Whereby  you  fill  your   children's  mouths, 

and  by 
The  might  of  Him  that  made  it — fishermen  ! 
I  charge  you,  mothers  !  by  the  mother's  milk 
7 


74 


Christus  ad  Portam. 


He  drew,  and  by  His  Father,  God  over  all, 
Blessed  forever,  that  ye  answer  Him  ! 
Open   the    door   with    shame,  if   ye   have 

sinned ; 
If  ye  be  sorry,  open  it  with  sighs. 
Albeit  the  place  be  bare  for  poverty, 
And  comfortless  for  lack  of  plenishing, 
Be  not  abashed  for  that,  but  open  it, 
And  take  Him  in  that  comes  to  sup  with 

thee  ; 
'  Behold,'  He   saith,    '  I  stand  at  the  door 

and  knock.' 

"Now,  hear  me  :  there  be  troubles  in  this 
world, 
That  no  man  can  escape,  and  there  is  one 
That  lieth  hard  and  heavy  on  my  soul, 
Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  : 


"  I  say, 
As  a  man  that  knows  what  earthly  trouble 

means, 
I  will  not  bear  this  ONE — I  cannot  bear 
This  ONE — I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  you — 


■Poetry  of  the  Present.  75 

You — every  one  of  you,  body  and  soul ; 
You,  with  the  care  you  suffer,  and  the  loss 
That  you  sustain  ;  you,  with  the  growing  up 
To  peril,  may  be  with  the  growing  old 
To  want,  unless,  before  I  stand  with  you 
At  the  great  white  throne,  I  may  be  free 

of  all, 
And  utter  to  the  full  what  shall  discharge 
Mine  obligation :  nay,  I  will  not  wait 
A  day,  for  every  time  the  black  clouds  rise, 
And  the   gale  freshens,  still    I    search   my 

soul, 
To  find  if  there  be  aught  that  can  persuade 
To  good,  or  aught  forsooth  that  can  beguile 
From  evil,  that  I  (miserable  man  ! 
If  that  be  so)  have  left  unsaid,  undone. 

"  So   that  when  any  risen    from  sunken 
wrecks, 
Or  rolled  in  by  the  billows  to  the  edge 
Of  th'  everlasting  strand,  what  time  the  sea 
Gives  up  her  dead,  shall  meet  me,  they  may 

say, 
Never,  '  Old  man,  you  told  us  not  of  this ; 


j6  Christus  ad  Portam. 

You  left  us  fisher-lads  that  had  to  toil, 

Ever  in  danger  of  the  secret  stab 

Of   rocks,  far   deadlier   than   the   dagger  ; 

winds 

« 

Of  breath   more  murd'rous  than   the  can- 
non's ;   waves 
Mighty  to  rock  us  to  our  death  ;  and  gulfs, 
Ready  beneath  to  suck  and  swallow  us  in  : 
This  crime  be  on  your  head  ;  and  as  for  us, 
What  shall  we  do  ?  '  but  rather — nay,  not  so," 
I    will   not   think   of    it ;  I    will    leave   the 

dead, 
Appealing  but  to  life  :  I  am  afraid 
Of   you,   but   not   so    much   if   you    have 

sinned, 
As  for  the  doubt  if  sin  shall  be  forgiven. 
The  day  was,  I  have  been  afraid  of  pride  — 
Hard   man's   hard   pride ;   but   now    I   am 

afraid 
Of  man's  humility.     I  counsel  you 
By  the  great  God's  great  humbleness,  and 

by 
His  pity,  be  not  humble  over  much. 
See  !  I  will  show  at  whose  unopened  doors 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  jj 

He  stands  and  knocks,  that  you   may  never 

say 
'  I  am  too  mean,  too  ignorant,  too  lost ; 
He  knocks  at  other  doors,  but  not  at  mine.' 


"  See   here !    it  is   the   night !    it   is   the 

night ! 
And   snow    lies   thickly,   white   untrodden 

snow, 
And  the  wan  moon  upon  a  casement  shines, 
A  casement  crusted  o'er  with  frosty  leaves, 
That  make  her  ray  less  bright  along  the 

floor. 
A  woman  sits  with  hands  upon  her  knees, 
Poor  tired  soul !  and  she  has  naught  to  do, 
For  there  is  neither  fire  nor  candle-light ; 
The  driftwood  ash  lies  cold  upon  her  hearth  ; 
The  rush-light  flickered  down  an  hour  ago  ; 
Her  children  wail  a  little  in  their  sleep 
For  cold  and  hunger,  and  as  if  that  sound 
Was  not  enough,  another  comes  to  her, 
Over  God's  undented  snow — a  song — 
Nay,  never  hang  your  heads — I  say,  a  song. 
7* 


78 


Christus  ad  Port  am. 


"And  doth  she  curse  the  ale-house,  and  the 

sots 
That  drink  the  night  out  and  their  earnings 

there, 
And  drink  their  manly  strength  and  courage 

down, 
And  drink  away  the  little  children's  bread, 
And  starve  her,  starving  by  the  self-same  act 
Her  tender  suckling,  that,  with  piteous  eyes, 
Looks  in  her  face,  till  scarcely  she  has  heart 
To  work  and  earn  the  scanty  bit  and  drop 
That  feed  the  others  ? 


"  Does  she  curse  the  song  ? 
I  think  not,  fishermen ;  I  have  not  heard 
Such  women  curse.     God's  curse  is  curse 

enough. 
To-morrow  she  will  say  a  bitter  thing, 
Pulling  her  sleeve  down,  lest  the   bruises 

show — 
A  bitter  thing,  but  meant  for  an  excuse — 
1  My  master  is  not  worse  than  many  men :' 
But  now,' ay,  now,  she  sitteth  dumb  and 

still ; 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  79 

No  food,  no  comfort,  cold  and  poverty 
Bearing  her  down. 


"  My  heart  is  sore  for  her ; 
How    long,   how    long?      When    troubles 

come  of  God, 
When  men  are  frozen  out  of  work,  when 

wives 
Are  sick,  when  working  fathers  fail  and  die, 
When  boats  go  down  at  sea  —  then  naught 

behooves 
Like  patience  ;  but  for  troubles  wrought  of 

men 
Patience  is  hard — I  tell  you  it  is  hard. 

"  O  thou  poor  soul !   it  is  the  night  —  the 
night ; 
Against  thy  door  drifts  up  the  silent  snow, 
Blocking  thy  threshold  :  '  Fall,'  thou  sayest, 

1  fall,  fall, 
Cold  sno^v,  and  lie  and  be  trod  underfoot, 
Am  not  I  fallen  ?  Wake  up  and  pipe,  O  wind, 
Dull  wind,  and  beat  and  bluster  at  my  door; 


80  Christ  us  ad  Poi'tam. 

Merciful  wind,  sing  me  a  hoarse,  rough  song, 
For  there  is  other  music  made  to-night 
That  I  would  fain  not  hear.     Wake,  thou 

still  sea, 
Heavily  plunge.    Shoot  on,  white  waterfall. 
O,  I  could  long  like  thy  cold  icicles 
Freeze,  freeze,  and  hang  upon  the  frosty 

cliff 
And  not  complain,  so  I  might  melt  at  last 
In  the  warm  summer  sun,  as  thou  wilt  do ! 

"  '  But  woe  is  me  !  I  think  there  is  no  sun  ; 
My  sun  is  sunken,  and  the  night  grows  dark  : 
None  care  for  me.     The  children  cry  for 

bread, 
And  I  have  none,  and  naught  can  comfort 

me  ; 
Even  if  the  heavens  were  free  to  such  as  I, 
It  were  not  much,  for  death  is  long  to  wait, 
And  heaven  is  far  to  go  !' 

"And  speak'st  thou'thus, 
Despairing  of  the  sun  that  sets  to  thee, 
And  of  the  earthly  love  that  wanes  to  thee, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  8 1 

And  of  the  heaven  that  lieth  far  from  thee  ?, 
Peace,  peace,  fond  fool !     One  draweth  near 

thy  door 
Whose  footsteps  leave  no  print  across  the 

snow ; 
Thy  sun  hath  risen  with  comfort  in  his  face, 
The  smile  of  heaven  to  warm  thy  frozen 

heart ; 
And  bless  with  saintly  hand.     What !   is  it 

long 
To  wait  and  far  to  go  ?     Thou  shalt  not  go  ; 
Behold  across  the  snow  to  thee  He  comes, 
Thy  heaven  descends  ;  and  is  it  long  to  wait  ? 
Thou    shalt   not   wait :    '  This    night,    this 

night,'  He  saith, 
1  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 


"  It  is  enough — can  such  an  one  be  here — 
Yea,  here  ?  O  God,  forgive  you,  fishermen  ! 
One  !  is  there  only  one  ?  But  do  thou  know, 
O  woman  pale  for  want,  if  thou  art  here, 
That  on  thy  lot  much  thought  is  spent  in 
heaven ; 


8  2  Ch vis tu s  a d  Porta  m . 

And,  coveting  the  heart  a  hard  man  broke, 
One  standeth  patient,  watching  in  the  night 
And  waiting  in  the  day-time. 

"  What  shall  be 
If  thou   wilt   answer  ?      He  will  smile  on 

thee  ; 
One  smile  of  His  shall  be  enough  to  heal 
The  wound  of  man's  neglect,  and  he  will 

sigh, 
Pitying  the  trouble  which  that  sigh   shall 

cure ; 
And  He  will  speak — speak  in  the  desolate 

night, 
In  the  dark  night :  '  For  me  a  thorny  crown 
Men  wove,  and  nails  were   driven  in   my 

hands 
And  feet :  there  was  an  earthquake,  and  I 

died  ; 
I  died,  and  am  alive  forever  more. 

"  '  I  died  for  thee  ;  for  thee  I  am  alive, 
And  my  humanity  doth  mourn  for  thee, 
For  thou  art  mine  ;  and  all  thy  little  ones, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  8  3 

They,  too,  are  mine,  are  mine.     Behold,  the 

house 
Is  dark,  but  there  is  brightness  where  the 

sons 
Of  God  are  singing ;  and,  behold,  the  heart 
Is  troubled  ;  yet  the  nations  walk  in  white  ; 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  weep  ;    and 

thou 
Shalt  also  come,  and  I  will  foster  thee 
And  satisfy  thy  soul ;  and  thou  shalt  warm 
Thy  trembling   life   beneath  the  smile   of 

God. 
A  little  while — it  is  a  little  while — 
A  little  while,  and  I  will  comfort  thee  ; 
I  go  away,  but  I  will  come  again.' 


"  But  hear  me  yet.   There  was  a  poor  old 
man 
Who  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea, 
And  heard  it  thunder,  lungeing  at  the  cliffs 
As   like   to   tear  them    down.     He   lay  at 

night ; 
And, '  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,'  said  he, 


84  Christus  ad  For  tarn. 

*  That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be  none 

of  mine  ; 
For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when  the 

wind 
Flings  at  the  window,  when  it  beats  the  roof, 
And  lulls  and  stops  and  rouses  up  again, 
And  cuts  the  crust  clean  off  the  plunging 

wave, 
And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 
Why,  then  I  think  of  my  two  lads  :  my  lads 
That  would  have  worked  and  never  let  me 

want, 
And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 
No,  none  of  mine ;  my  lads  were  drowned 

at  sea — 
My  two  —  before  the  most  of  these  were 

born. 
I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my  poor 

wife 
Walked  up  and  down,  and  still  walked  up 

and  down, 
And  I  walked  after,  and  one  could  not  hear 
A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and  sea 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  85 

That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in  the 

night — 
The  awfullest,  the  longest,  lightest  night 
That  ever  parents  had  to  spend — a  moon 
That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  breaking 

wave. 
Ah  me  !  and  other  men  have  lost  their  lads, 
And  other  women  wiped  their  poor  dead 

mouths, 
And  got  them  home,  and  dried  them  in  the 

house, 
And  seen  the  driftwood  lie  along  the  coast 
That  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back, 
And  seen,  next  tide,  the  neighbors  gather  it 
To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

"  'Ay,  I  was  strong 
And  able-bodied — loved  my  work ; — but  now 
I  am  a  useless  hull ;  'tis  time  I  sunk ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way  ;  I  trouble  them  ; 
I  am  a  trouble  to  myself;  but  yet 
I  feel  for  mariners  of  stormy  nights, 
And   feel    for    wives    that    watch    ashore. 
Ay,  ay  ! 
8 


86  Christus  ad  Portam. 

If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  ;  but  I'm  no  scholar,  no  ; 
Book-learning  is  a  world  too  hard  for  me ; 
But  I    make  bold   to  say,  "  O  Lord,  good 

Lord, 
I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 
To  speak  to  Thee  :  but  in  the  Book  'tis  writ, 
As  I  hear  say  from  others  that  can  read, 
How,  when  Thou  earnest,  Thou  did'st  love 

the  sea, 
And  live  with  fisher-folk,  whereby,  'tis  sure 
Thou  knowest  all  the  peril  they  go  through, 
And  all  their  trouble. 

"  'As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  I  am  too  old,  too  old — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried   my  poor 

wife  ; 
My  little  lasses  died  so  long  ago, 
That  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were  like. 
Thou  knowest,  Lord ;  they  were  such  little 

ones 
I  know  they  went  to  Thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore. 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  8  7 

"  <  O  Lord, 
I  was  a  strong  man  ;  I  have  drawn  good 

food, 
And  made  good  money  out  of  Thy  great 

sea  ; 
But  yet   I    cried   for  them  at   nights ;  and 

now, 
Although  I  be  so  old,  I  miss  my  lads, 
And  there  be  many  folk  this  stormy  night 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful  Lord, 
Comfort   them ;    save    their    honest    boys, 

their  pride, 
And  let  them  hear  next  ebb  the  blessedest, 
Best  sound — the  boat  keels  grating  on  the 

sand." 

"  '  I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words :  I  know 
Nothing  ;  I  have  no  learning,  cannot  learn — 
Too   old,   too   old.      They  say  I  want  for 

nought, 
I  have  the  parish  pay ;  but  I  am  dull 
Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms  me 

through. 
God  save  me,  I  have  been  a  sinful  man — 


8&  Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 

And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still   can 

work, 
For  they  are  good  to  me  ;  ay,  good  to  me. 
But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble  !  and  I  sit, 
And  I  am  lonesome,  and  the  nights  are  few 
That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a  chair 
And  sit  in  my  poor  place  and  talk  awhile. 
Why  should  they  come,  forsooth  ?  Only  the 

wind, 
Knocks  at  my  door,  Oh !  long  and  loud  it 

knocks, 
The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a  mind 
To  enter  in.' 

"  Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake  : 
These   were   the    last   words  of    his    aged 

mouth — 
But  one  did  knock.     One  came  to  sup  with 

him, 
That  humble,  weak  old   man  ;    knocked  at 

his  door 
In  the  rough  pauses  of  the  laboring  wind. 
I  tell  you  that  one  knocked  while  it  was 

dark, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  89 

Save  where  their  foaming  passion  had  made 

white, 
The  livid,  seething  billows.     What  he  said 
In   that    poor    place   where    He    did    talk 

awhile, 
I  cannot  tell :  but  this  I  am  assured, 
That  when  the  neighbors  came  the  morrow 

morn, 
What  time  the  wind  had  bated,  and  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  old  man's  floor,  they  saw  the 

smile 
He   passed   away   in,   and   they   said,  '  He 

looks 
As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of  Christ, 
And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out  his 

arms 
To  come  to  Him  !' 

"  Can  such  an  one  be  here, 
So  old,  so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  frail  ? 
The  Lord  be  good  to  thee,  thou  poor  old 

man  ; 
It  would  be  hard  with  thee  if  heaven  were 

shut 


90  Christies  ad  Portam. 

To  such  as  have  not  learning !  Nay,  nay, 

nay, 
He  condescends  to  them  of  low  estate  ; 
To  such  as  are  despised  He  cometh  down, 
Stands  at  the  door  and  knocks. 

"  Yet  bear  with  me. 
I  have  a  message  ;  I  have  more  to  say. 
Shall  sorrow  win  His  pity,  and  not  sin — 
That  burden  ten  times  heavier  to  be  borne  ? 
What  think  you  ?     Shall  the  virtuous  have 

His  care 
Alone  ?     O   virtuous    woman,    think     not 

scorn, 
For  you  may  lift  your  faces  everywhere  ; 
And  now  that  it  grows  dusk,  and  I  can  see 
None,  though  they  front  me  straight,  I  fain 

would  tell 
A  certain  thing  to  you.     I  say  to  you  ; 
And  if  it  doth  concern  you,  as  methinks 
It  doth,  then  surely  it  concerneth  all. 
I  say  that  there  was  once — I  say  not  here — 
I  say  that  there  was  once  a  casta  way, 
And  she  was  weeping,  weeping  bitterly  ; 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  9 1 

Kneeling  and  crying  with  a  heartsick  cry 
That  choked  itself  in  sobs— '  O   my  good 
name  ! 

0  my  good  name  ! '     And  none  did  hear 

her  cry ! 
Nay,  and  it  lightened  and  the  storm  bolts 

fell, 
And  the   rain  splashed  upon  the  roof,  and 

still 
She,  storm-tost  as  the  stormy  elements — 
She  cried  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry, 

1  O  my  good  name  ! '     And  then  the  thunder 

cloud 

Stooped  low  and  burst  in  darkness  over- 
head, 

And  rolled  and  rocked  her  on  her  knees, 
and  shook 

The  frail  foundations  of  her  dwelling-place. 

But  she — if  any  neighbor  had  come  in 

(None  did);  if  any  neighbor  had  come  in, 

They  might  have  seen  her  crying  on  her 
knees, 

And  sobbing  i  Lost,  lost,  lost F  beating  her 
breast, 


92  Christies  ad  Port  am. 

Her  breast  fore-ver  pricked  with  cruel 
thorns, 

The  wounds  whereof  could  neither  balm 
assuage 

Nor  any  patience  heal — beating  her  brow, 

Which  ached,  it  had  been  bent  so  long  to 
hide 

From  level  eyes,  whose  meaning  was  con- 
tempt. 

"  O  Je  good  women,  it  is  hard  to  leave 
The  paths  of  virtue,  and  return  again. 
What  if  this  sinner  wept  and  none  of  you, 
Comforted    her  ?      And    what   if   she    did 

strive 
To   mend,  and   none   of    you  believed  her 

strife, 
Nor  looked  upon  her  ?   Mark,  I  do  not  say, 
Though  it  was  hard,  you  therefore  were  to 

blame  ; 
That   she  had  aught  against  you,  though 

your  feet 
Never  drew  near  her  door.     But  I  beseech 
Your  patience.     Once  in  old  Jerusalem 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  .93 

A  woman  kneeled  at  consecrated  feet, 
Kissed   them,  and    washed  them  with  her 
tears. 

"  What  then  ? 
I  think  that  yet  our  Lord  is  pitiful ; 
I  think  I  see  the  castaway  e'en  now  ! 
And  she  is  not  alone  :  the  heavy  rain 
Splashes  without,  and  sullen  thunder  rolls, 
But  she  is  lying  at  the  sacred  feet 
Of  one  transfigured. 

"  And  her  tears  flow  down, 
Down   to   her  lips — her  lips  that  kiss   the 

print 
Of  nails,  and  love  is  like  to  break  her  heart ! 
Love  and  repentance — for  it  still  doth  work 
Sore  in  her  soul  to  think,  to  think  that  she, 
Even  she  did  pierce  the  sacred,  sacred  feet, 
And  bruise  the  thorn-crowned  head. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord, 
How  great  is  thy  compassion  !  Come,  good 
Lord, 


94  Christus  ad  Portam. 

For  we  will  open.     Come  this  night,  good 

Lord  ; 
Stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"And  is  this  all? 

Trouble,  old  age  and  simpleness,  and  sin — 

This  all?  It  might  be  all  some  other  night; 

But  this  night,  if  a  voice  said, '  Give  account 

Whom  hast  thou  with  thee?  Then  must  I 
reply, 

1  Young  manhood  have  I,  beautiful  youth 
and  strength, 

Rich  with  all  treasures  drawn  up  from  the 
crypt 

Where  lies  the  learning  of  the  ancient 
world — 

Brave  with  all  thoughts  that  poets  fling 
upon 

The  strand  of  life,  as  driftwood  after  storms : 

Doubtless  familiar  with  Thv  mountain  heads, 

And  the  dread  purity  of  Alpine  snows  ; 

Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  works,  con- 
cealed 

For  ages  from  mankind — outlying  worlds, 


Poetry  of  the  Present.  95 

And  many  mooned  spheres — and  Thy  great 

store 
Of  stars,  more  thick  than  mealy  dust  which 

here 
Powders  the  pale  leaves  of  Auriculas. 

"  '  This  do  I  know,  but,  Lord,  I  know  not 
more. 

"  '  Not  more  concerning  them — concerning 

Thee, 
I   know  Thy  bounty ;    where  Thou  givest 

much, 
Standing  without ;  if  an}^  call  Thee  in 
Thou  givest  more.'    Speak  then,  O  rich  and 

strong : 
Open,  O  happy  young,  ere  yet  the  hand 
Of  Him  that  knocks,  wearied,  at  last,  for- 
bear ; 
The  patient  foot  its  thankless  quest  refrain, 
The   wounded    heart    forever   more   with- 
draw." 

I  have  heard  many  speak,  but  this  one  man — 
So  anxious  not  to  go  to  heaven  alone — 


96  Christies  ad  Portam. 

This  one  man  I  remember,  and  his  look,         • 
Till  twilight  overshadowed  him.    He  ceased, 
And  out  into  the  darkness  with  the  fisher 

folk 
We  passed,  and  stumbled  over  mounds  of 

moss, 
And  heard,   but  did  not   see,  the   passing 

beck. 
Ah  !   graceless  heart,  would  that  it  could 

regain 
From  the  dim  store -house   of  sensation's 

past 
The  impress  full  of  tender  awe,  that  night, 
Which   fell   upon   me  !      It  was  as   if   the 

Christ 
Had  been  drawn  down  from  heaven  to  track 

us  home, 
And  any  of  the  footsteps  following  us 
Might  have  been  His. 


CHAPTER    IV 


POETRY   OF   OTHER   LANDS. 

^VX1  lji0V)  ^Xl  \xovy 

'Avdara,  rl  na^evdeig ; 

To  reXog  'eyyi&i, 

Kal  fieXXeig  Sopvpelo^sai, ; 

Avdvrjxpnv  ovv,  Iva 
$>£Lor]Tai  oov,  Xpiorbg 
fO  Sebg,  'o  nav-a^ov  rrapcbv 
Kal  rd  ndvra  TrXrjpcov* 

IT  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice,  that  mediaeval 
hymns  very  rarely  touch  warnings  to  sinners, 
and,  consequently,  mediaeval  poets  seem  to  have 
quite  overlooked  our  subject,  Christ  at  the  door; 

*  My  soul,  my  soul  arise  ! 

In  drunken  slumber  wherefore  lie  ? 
The  end  draws  nigh, 
And  shall  it  thee  surprise  ? 

Awake,  then,  at  the  call  ; 

That  Christ,  the  Lord,  thy  soul  may  spare, 

He  who  is  everywhere 
And  filleth  all. 

9  (97) 


98  Christus  ad  Portam. 

yet  they  do,  at  times,  come  very  near  it.  But  the 
few  Latin  hymns  which  we  have  found  containing 
even  an  allusion  to  this  theme,  are  connected  so 
much  more  closely  with  the  last  clauses  of  Rev. 
3  :  6,  that  we  reserve  them,  save  one,  for  another 
chapter. 

This  one  exception,  found  in  a  Munich  manu- 
script of  the  XVth  century,  is  taken  from  Mone's 
Lateinischen  Hymnen  (No.  231).  We  need  only 
to  read  the  hymn  to  be  persuaded  that  the  cowled 
monk  who,  centuries  ago,  first  gave  to  his  mon- 
astery these  holy  thoughts,  and  the  skillful  calli- 
grapher  whose  loving  touch  traced  and  illuminated 
the  text  on  the  smooth  parchment,  even  in  the 
darkness  of  their  day,  had  one  faith  and  one 
Lord  with  ourselves;  and  though  their  good 
words  may  have  shed  but  the  faintest  ray  of  light 
in  and  around  the  cloister  in  whose  quiet  seclu- 
sion their  days  slipped  by,  yet  like  the  beacon 
lamp  whose  beam  scarce  gilds  the  boat  rocking 
within  a  stone's  throw,  but  blazes  with  floods  of 
light  to  guide  and  warn  the  mariner  far  out  at  sea, 
so  these  pious  conventuals,  the  gleam  of  whose 
sanctity  only  serves  to  render  visible  the  darkness 
of  their  age,  shed  a  marvellous  brightness  upon 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  99 

us  who  are  borne  farther  and  farther  from  them 
on  the  ocean  of  time. 

In  connection  with  the  Latin  is  placed  a  very- 
sweet  and  successful  rendering  of  the  hymn  into 
corresponding  English  verse,  by  John  David 
Chambers,  M.A.,  found  in  Lauda  Syon. 


EXHORTATIO  ANIMAE  AD  SUMENDUM 
CORPUS  CHRISTI. 

Eia  dulcis  anima, 

O  soror  raea  cara, 
Tuo  devotissima 

Jam  sponso  lectum  para  ! 

Hospitem  mitissimum 

Jam  eris  susceptura ; 
Quod  in  coelis  optimum 

Est,  eris  acceptura. 

Cujus  est  praesentia 

Tarn  caritate  plena, 
Cujus  amicitia 

Tarn  nimis  est  amoena. 


ioo  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

Apud  te  quiescere 

Et  tecum  vult  pausare ; 

Tecum  vult  discumbere 
Et  tecum  vult  coenare. 

Surge,  curre  obviam 
Est  enim  ta'm  vicinus  : 

Cordis,  per  munditiam 
Paratos  habe  sinus. 

Tene  cum  susceperis  ; 

Hunc  ne  dimittas  victa, 
Nisi  plene  fueris 

Per  eum  benedicta.     Amen. 


Haste,  my  soul,  thou  sister  sweet, 

Who  all  my  being  sharest, 
For  thy  Spouse  a  chamber  meet 

Now  see  that  thou  preparest ; 
For  a  kind  and  gentle  Guest 

To  visit  thee  intendeth : 
All  that  Heaven  hath  fair  and  best 

To  greet  thee  condescendeth. 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  101 

He  whose  presence  e'er  imparts 

A  joy  which  passeth  measure, 
He,  whose  friendship  on  all  hearts 

Bestoweth  boundless  pleasure, 
Would  possess  this  breast  of  thine, 

With  thee  His  sojourn  making, 
With  thee  at  His  board  recline, 

With  thee  His  supper  taking. 

Arise,  and  run  to  meet  thy  Lord ; 

E'en  now  His  steps  are  near  thee, 
Thine  heart  a  hallowed  shrine  afford 

For  Him  to  dwell  and  cheer  thee ; 
Oh,  hold  him  fast  in  thine  embrace, 

Let  Him  go  from  thee  never, 
Till  with  the  fulness  of  His  grace 

He  bless  thee  now  and  ever. 


A   few   selections    from   German    sources  are 

appended,  but  generally,  like  the  hymns  of  the 

Middle  Ages,  they  bear  more  directly  upon  the 

second  division  of  our  subject.  This  first  ex- 
ample is  a  well-known  hymn  of  Gerhard  Ter- 
steegen,  who  died  1769. 

9* 


102  Christus  ad  For  lam. 


GOTT   RUFET    NOCH. 

Gott  rufet  noch  ;    sollt'  ich  nicht  endlich 

horen  ? 
Wie  lass'  ich  mich  bezauben  und  bethoren  ? 
Die  kurze  Freud',  die  kurze  Zeit  vrergeht, 
Und  meine  Seel'  noch  so  gefahrlich  steht ! 

Gott  rufet  noch;    sollt'  ich   nicht   endlich 

kommen  ? 
Ich  hab'  so  lang'  die  treue  Stimm'  vernom- 

men  ! 
Ich  wuszt'  es  wohl,  ich  war  nicht  wie  ich 

sollt'; 
Er  winkte  mir,  ich  habe  nicht  gewollt. 

Gott  rufet  noch ;   wie  dasz  ich  mich  nicht 

gebe ! 
Ich  fiircht'  sein  Joch  und  doch  in  Banden 

lebe ; 
Ich  halte  Gott  und  meine  Seele  auf ; 
Er  ziehet  mich  ;  mein  armes  Herze  lauf ! 


Poetry  of  other  Lands \  103 

Gott  rufet  noch  ;   ach,  dasz  ich  mich  nicht 

gebe ! 
Ich  fiircht'  Sein  Joch,  und  doch  in  Banden 

lebe ; 
Ich  halte  Gott  und  meine  Seele  auf ; 
Er  ziehet  mich  ;  mein  armes  Herze  lauf ! 

Gott   rufet    noch ;    ob  ich   mein   Ohr  ver- 

stopfet : 
Er  stehet  noch  au  meiner  ThuV  und  klopfet ; 
Er  ist  bereit,  dasz  er  mich  noch  empfang' ; 
Er  wartet  noch  auf  mich ;   wer  weisz,  wie 

lang'. 

Gib  dich,  mein  Herz,  gib  einmal  dich  ge- 

fangen  ! 
Wo   willst   du   Trost,   wo    willst  du   Run' 

erlangen  ? 
Lasz  los,  lasz  los  !  brich  alle  Band'  enzwei ! 
Dein   Geist  wird  sonst  in   Evvigkeit  nicht 

frei. 

Gott  locket  mich  ;    nun  langer  nicht  ver- 
weilet ! 


104  Christtis  ad  Portam. 

Gott    will   mich   ganz ;    nun   langer    nicht 

getheilet ! 
Fleisch,  Welt,  Vernunft,  sag  immer,  was  du 

willt, 
Mir,  Gottes  Stimme  mehr,  als  deine,  gilt. 

Ich   folge    Gott ;     ich    will   ihn   ganz  ver- 

gnligen, 
Die  Gnade  soil  in  Herzen  endlich  siegen. 
Ich  gebe  mich ;  Gott  soil  hinfort  allein 
Und  unbedingt    mein    Herr    und    Meistcr 

sein  ! 

Ach,  nimm  mich  hin,  Du  Langmuth  ohne 

Masze  ? 
Ergreif  mich  wohl,  dasz  ich  dich  nie  ver- 

lasse ! 
Herr  rede  nur ;  ich  get/  begierig  Acht ; 
Fiihr',  wie  Du  willst ;    ich    bin    in    Deiner 

Macht. 


Two  translations  of  the  above  poem  are  found 
in  our  hymnals.  The  first,  by  Jane  Borthwick,  in 
his  Hymns  from  the  La?id  of  Luther  ;  the  second, 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  105 

though  it  has  sometimes  been  accredited  to  the 
same  translator,  is  taken  from  Golden  Moments, 
where  no  translator's  name  is  attached.  The  first, 
though  preserving  the  feminine  rhymes,  is  the 
more  successful  in  rendering  the  movement  of  the 
original. 

GOD  CALLING  YET. 

God  calling  yet !  and  shall  I  never  hearken, 
But     still     earth's    witcheries    my     spirit 

darken  ? 
This   passing    life,    these   passing  joys    all 

flying, 
And    still    my    soul    in    dreamy  slumbers 
•     lying ! 

God  calling  yet !  and  I  not  yet  arising  ; 
So  long  His  loving,  faithful  voice  despising  ; 
So  falsely  His  unwearied  care  repaying  ; 
He  calls  me  still,  and  still  I  am  delaying. 

God  calling  yet !  loud  at  my  door  is  knock- 
ing* 
And  I  my  heart,  my  ear  still  firmer  locking. 


/ 


io6  Christies  ad  Portam. 

He  still  is  ready,  willing  to  receive  me, 
Is  waiting  now,  but  oh  !  He  soon  may  leave 
me. 

God  calling  yet,  and  I  no  answer  giving  ; 
I  dread  His  yoke  and  am  in  bondage  living ; 
Too  long  I  linger,  but  not  yet  forsaken, 
He  calls  me  still,  O,  my  poor  heart,  awaken ! 

Ah  !  yield  Him  all,  all  to  His  care  confiding, 
Where   but  with   Him   are  rest  and  peace 

abiding ; 
Unloose,     unloose,     break     earthly    bonds 

asunder, 
And  let  this  spirit  rise  in  soaring  wonder. 

God  calling  yet ! — I  can  no  longer  tarry, 
Nor  to  my  God  a  heart  divided  carry ; 
Now  vain  and  giddy  world,  your  spells  are 

broken  ; 
Sweeter   than   all   the   voice   of  God  hath 

spoken  ! 

God  calling  yet !  shall  I  not  hear  ? 
Earth's  pleasures  shall  I  still  hold  dear  ? 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  107 

Shall  life's  swift  passing  years  all  fly, 
And  still  my  soul  in  slumbers  lie? 

*i     God  calling  yet !  shall  I  not  rise  ? 
Can  I  His  loving  voice  despise, 
And  basely  His  kind  care  repay  ? 
He  calls  me  still  ;  can  I  delay  ? 

$     God  calling  yet !  and  shall  He  knock 
And  I  my  heart  the  closer  lock? 
He  still  is  waiting  to  receive, 
And  shall  I  dare  His  spirit  grieve  ? 

God  calling  yet ;  and  shall  I  give 
No  heed,  but  still  in  bondage  live  ? 
I  wait,  but  He  does  not  forsake, 
He  calls  me  still !  My  heart,  awake  ! 

J0    God  calling  yet !  I  cannot  stay  ; 
My  heart  I  yield  without  delay. 
Vain  world,  farewell !  from  thee  I  part ; 
The  voice  of  God  hath  reached  my  heart. 


In  this  connection  may  be  given  two  stanzas, 
written  at  about  the  same  period,  as  Tersteegen's, 


io8 


Christies  ad  Portam. 


by  Dr.  Johann   Christian  Storr.     The    complete 
hymn  may  be  found  in  the  Liederschatz. 

Schau,'  armer  Mensch  !  zu  diesem  GlUck 
Ruft  dein  Erloser  dich  zuriick 

Von  jenem  Grund  verderben, 
Er  kam  deszwegen  in  die  Welt, 
Und  gab  fur  dich  das  Losegeld 
Durch  Leiden  und  durch  Sterben. 
Losz  dich 
Willig 
Doch  umarmen  ! 
Sein  Erbarmen, 
Schmach  und  Leiden 
Sind  ein  Meer  voll  Seligkeiten ! 


Ach,  kannst  du  den  Immanuel 
So  vor  der  Thiire  deiner  Seel' 

Vergeblich  klopfen  lassen  ? 
Soil  seine  unzahlbare  Pein 
Gerad'  an  dir  verloren  seyn  ? 
Dasz  heiszt  sein  Leben  hassen . 
Arme 
Seele  ! 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  109 

Komm  und  wende 
Dich  behende 
Zu  den  Wunden, 
Die  dein  Hirt'  fiir  dich  empfunden  ! 

Behold,  poor  man,  to  what  high  joys 
Thy  Saviour  calls,  with  tender  voice, 

From  ruin  near  thee  lying ! 
For  this  into  the  world  He  came, 
And  paid  the  ransom  in  thy  name, 

Through  suffering  and  through  dying  ; 
Embrace 
His  grace 
Now  with  gladness ; 
His  great  sadness 
And  compassion 
Are,  of  bliss,  a  boundless  ocean. 

Thus  shall  Immanuel  stand  before 
The  closed  bars  of  thy  spirit's  door, 

Knocking  and  vainly  beating  ? 
Shall  His  immeasurable  woe 
Straightway  be  lost  on  such  a  foe  ? 

His  very  life  thou'rt  hating. 
10 


HO  Chris  tits  ad  Portam. 

Fear  it, 

Spirit ; 
Quickly  turning, 
No  more  spurning 
Wounds  he  weareth, 
Which  for  thee,  the  Shepherd  beareth. 


The  hymn  561  in  the  Gesangbuch  zum  gebrauch 
der  evangelischen  Briidergemeinen,  Bar  by,  1783, 
also  alludes  to  Christ  at  the  door.  In  this  trans- 
lation an  attempt  has  been  made  to  preserve  the 
astonishing  measure  of  the  original,  stepping 
from  anapests  to  iambics  and  back  again,  without 
the  slightest  hesitation,  because  the  unknown  Ger- 
man author  has  led  the  way.  The  hymn  and  its 
translation  are  as  follows  : 


WIE    LAXGE? 

Wie  lange  musz  Jesus  doch   bey  uns  an- 
klopfen, 

Eh  unsre  Herzen  offen  stehn  ! 
Indem  wir  so  lange  die  Ohren  verstopfen, 

Dasz  er  oft  musz  voriiber  gehn  ; 


Poetry  of  other  Lauds.  1 1 1 

Allein  sein  Erbarmen  hort  doch  nicht  auf 
Bis  er  uns,  die  Armen  mit  in  den  Lauf 
Der  seligen  Kinder  der  Gnade  gezogen 
Und  unser  verharteles  Herz  Uberwogen. 

Herr,  der  du  auch  mir  hast,  nach  langem 

Besinnen 
Vernunft  und  Sinnen  iibermocht, 
Das  Herz  mir  genommen  (o  seligs  Begin- 

nen  !) 
Und  an  dein  Kreuz  mich  angejocbt: 
Nun  leb'  ich  in  Frieden,  nun  lasz  mich  nicht, 
Bis  an  mir  hienieden  ist  ansgericht't 
Warnm  du  am  Stamme  des  Kreuzes  ges- 

torben 
Warum    du    so   lang   urn    mein  Herze   ge- 

worben. 

Die  Stimme   des   Blutes,  das  von  dir   ge- 
flossen, 
Die  schrie  mir  allenthalben  nach  ; 
Die  Thranen  die  du  um  mein  Leben  ver- 
gossen, 
Die  heischten  vveder  Zorn  noch  Rach ; 


1 1 2  Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 

Nein,    GnacT    und    Erbarmen    war    jeder 

Blick 
Woran  ich  noch  heute  mein  Herz  erquick', 
Und  Kiisse  dir  glaubig  die  blutigen  Hande 
Womit   du    mich    triigest    sammt    meinem 

Elende. 


HOW   LONG? 

How  long  must  the  Saviour  stand  knocking 
and  waiting 
Before  ov.r  hearts  are  opened  wide  ? 

We  turn  away  deafly,  nor  hear  him  entreat- 
ing* 
Till  grieved  and  sad,  He  leaves  our  side. 

But  great  His  compassions,  and  slow  is  His 
wrath, 

Till  drawn  by  His  mercy,  we  find  the  path 

Where  children  of  grace  run  His  errands 
with  fleetness, 

And  hearts,  hard  as  ours,  are  subdued  by 
His  sweetness. 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  i 1 3 

O  Lord,  who  hast  formed  me,  and,  graciously 
winning 
My  powers  of  thought,  my  powers   of 
will, 

Hast  taken    my  spirit,    oh!  blessed  begin- 
ning, 
And  to  Thy  cross  hast  bound  it  still ; 

Thy    peace    hast  Thou   given,   remain    my 
Guest 

Till  Thou  hast  perfected  within  my  breast 

Thy  plan  on  the  cross  that  lost  soul  to  re- 
cover 

For  which  at  my  door  Thou  didst  woo  like 
a  lover. 


The  voice  of  Thy  blood  flowing  faster  and 
faster 
I  heard  where'er  my  way  might  be  ; 
Thy  tears  for  my   healing,   most    merciful 
Master, 
Deserved  not  hate  nor  scorn  from  me  ; 
No,  pity  and  pardon  alone  I  saw, 
Reviving  my  spirit,  till  now,  with  awe, 


1 14  Christies  ad  Portant. 

Yet  trustful,  I  kiss  the  hands  blood-red  and 

weary 
Wherewith  both  myself  and  my  woes  Thou 

dost  carry. 


In  Karl  Gerok's  hymn-book  is  found  another 
beautiful  poem,  which  we  have  not  been  able  to 
obtain.  The  following  translation,  however,  is 
taken  from  Palm  Leaves  from  the  German  of 
Karl  Gerok,  translated  by  J.  E.  A.  Brown. 
Strahan  &*  Co.,  London  : 

ADVENT. 

"  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 

Behold,  I  knock  !     At  holy  Advent,  see, 
Without  thy  door  I  stand  ; 

0  haste  and  open  !  very  blest  is  he 
Who  knows  the  Shepherd's  hand. 

Lo !  I  will  enter  in  and  sup  with  him, 

1  will  give  grace,  and  light  'mid  shadows 

dim, 
Will  open  to  him  all  the  heavenly  land ! 

Behold,  I  knock ! 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  1 1 5 

Behold,  I  knock  !    Tis  piercing  cold  abroad 

This  bitter  winter  time  ; 
The  ice  upon  the  dark  pines  has  not  thawed, 

The  earth  is  white  with  rime : 
O  human  hearts  !  are  ye  all  frozen  too, 
That  at  closed  doors  I  vainly  call  to  you  ? 
Is  there  not  one  will  open  to  his  Lord  ? 

Behold,  I  knock  ! 

Behold,  I  knock!     Methinks  if  on  My  face 

Thou  wouldst  but  rest  thine  eyes, 
Wouldst   mark   the    crown    of  thorns,   the 
sharp  nail's  trace, 
Thou  couldst  not  Me  despise  ! 
Thee  have  I  yearned  for  with   a   love  so 

strong, 
Have  sought  for  thee  so  earnestly  and  long  ; 
My  road  led  from  a  cross  unto  this  place  : 

Behold,  I  knock  ! 

Behold,  I  knock  !     The  evening  shadows  lie 

So  peaceful,  near  and  far  ; 
Earth  sleepeth — but  in  yonder  cloudless  sky 

Glimmers  the  evening  star  ; 


1 1 6  Christtts  ad  Portam. 

'Tis  in  such  holy  twilight  time,  that  oft 
Full  many  a  stony  heart  hath  waxed  soft, 
Like  Nicodemus,  in  the  dark,  drawn  night, 

Behold,  I  knock ! 

Behold,  I  knock !     To  thee  I  would  impart 

Salvation's  gift  alone, 
Zaccheus'  blessings,  Mary's  better  part, 

Would  gladly  make  thine  own  : 

As  unto  My  disciples,  would  increase, 

In  the  dark  night,  thy  spirit's  inner  peace  ; 

Thus,  didst  thou  open,  would  I  greet  thy 

heart : 

Behold,  I  knock  ! 

Behold,  I  knock  !     O  soul,  art  thou  at  home, 

For  thy  Beloved's  here  ; 

Hast    thou    made    ready    flowers    ere    He 

should  come  ? 

Is  thy  lamp  burning  clear  ? 

Know'st  thou  how  such  a  Friend  received 

should  be  ? 

Art  thou  in  bridal  garments  dressed  for  Me  ? 

Decked  with  thy  jewels  as  for  guest  most 

dear? 

Behold,  I  knock! 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  1 1  7 

Behold  I  knock  !  but  doth  thine  own  heart 
beat 

With  mine  in  unison  ? 
Does  the  soft  echo  of  My  loving-  feet 

Scare  thee  like  thunder's  moan  ? 

List  to  thine  heart  which  beats  so  rapidly, 

It  is  the  voice  of  God  which  speaks  to  thee  : 

Wake  up  !     Loud  crows  the  cock,  the  night 

is  gone ; 

Behold,  I  knock ! 

Behold,  I  knock !  Say  not,  "  'Tis  zephyr  mild 

Which  rustles  the  dead  leaf;" 
It  is  thy  Saviour,  'tis  thy  God,  my  child, 

Let  not  thine  ear  be  deaf; 
If  I  come  now  in  breezes  soft  and  warm, 
I  may  return  again  upon  the  storm  ; 
'Tis  no  light  fancy — firm  be  thy  belief: 

Behold,  I  knock  ! 

Behold,  I  knock !     As  yet  I  am  thy  guest, 

Waiting  without  for  thee  ; 
The  time  shall  come  when,  homeless  and 
distressed, 

Thou,  soul,  shalt  knock  for  Me ; 


1 1 8  CJiristtis  ad  Port  am. 

To  those  who  heard  My  voice  ere  'twas  too 

late, 
I  open,  in  that  hour,  My  peaceful  gate  ; 
To  those  who  scorned,  a  closed  door  will 

it  be : 

Behold,  I  knock ! 


The  following  sonnet  is  from  the  Rimas  Sacras 
De  Lope  De  Vega  Carpio.  Obras  de  Lope  De 
Vega.  Vol.  XIIL.  Its  author  was  a  Spanish 
divine  and  dramatic  poet,  of  great  fertility  of 
genius,  who  died  in  1635. 

SONETI. 

I  Qu£  tengo  yo,  que  mi  amistad  procuras  ? 
I  Que  interes  se  te  sigue,  Jesus  mio, 
Que  a  mi  puerta  cubierto  de  rozio 
Passas  las  noches  del  hibierno  escuras  ? 
j  O  quanto  fueron  mis  entranas  duras ! 
Pues  no  te  abri,  ;  que  estrano  desvario  ! 
Si  de  mi  ingratitud  el  hielo  frio 
Seco  las  llagas  de  tus  plantas  puras, 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  1 19 

I  Quantas  veces  el  Angel  me  decia ; 
Alma  asomate  ahora  a  la  Ventana, 
Veras  con  quanto  amor  llamas  porfia  ? 
I  Y  quantas,  hermosura  soberana, 
Mariana  le  abriremos  respondia, 
Para  lo  misme  responder  mafiana? 


Mr.  Longfellow,  with  his  inimitable  skill  as 
translator,  has  rendered  this  exquisite  poem  into 
as  exquisite  English  verse.  In  point  both  of  sen- 
timent and  expression,  this  seems  to  us  the  most 
nearly  perfect,  the  crowning  jewel  of  this  collec- 
tion. 

TO-MORROW. 

From  the  Spanish  of  Lope  de  Vega. 

Lord  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  Thou  didst 

wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass    the    gloomy    nights    of    winter 

there  ? 


I  20  Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 

O  strange  delusion !  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,   and    oh !    to  Heaven 

how  lost 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost, 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  Thy 

feet. 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,   and    thou 

shalt  see 
How   He  persists  to    knock  and    wait  for 

thee  !" 
And  oh  !  how  often  to  that  .voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered, 

still, — "  To-morrow." 

It  is  thus  that  the  Son  of  man  ever  comes, 
passing  by  no  door  that  might  receive  him ;  but 
whether  He  shall  enter  as  a  Guest,  depends  upon 
the  free-will  of  those  to  whom  He  calls.  It  is  to 
this  effect  that  tere  Hyacinthe  writes  to  a  convert : 

"  You  have  desired,  on  this  day  so  full  of  lov- 
ing and  sorrowful  memories,  to  lay  your  suffering 
hand  in  the  hand  of  the  crucified  Spouse,  never 


Poetry  of  other  Lands.  1 2 1 

again  to  be  withdrawn.  How  beautiful  appears 
that  Spouse  of  Calvary,  in  his  blood  and 
through  your  tears,  and  how  truly  is  he  made 
for  you,  my  daughter !  It  is  not  only  '  Pa- 
tience smiling  at  grief,'  it  is  love  transported 
with  sorrow,  and  reposing  in  death.  Ah  !  blessed 
art  thou,  to  have  been  led  to  the  nuptial  chamber 
of  the  Lamb  ! 

"  And  yet,  my  daughter,  if  Christ  has  enticed 
your  heart,  (it  is  the  prophet's  own  word,  '  O 
Lord,  thou  hast  enticed  me  and  I  was  enticed ; 
thou  art  stronger  than  I  and  hast  prevailed,')  he 
has  respected  all  the  rights  of  your  reason  and 
'free-will. 

"  It  is  thus  that  Jesus  has  sought  you  for  himself. 
Spouse  of  souls,  he  is,  at  the  same  time  the  Spouse 
of  truth  and  freedom  ;  and  this  is  why,  when  he 
draws  souls  to  himself,  he  never  beguiles  nor 
compels  them.  He  is  the  Eternal  Word  begotten 
of  the  reason  of  the  Father,  born  in  the  outflow 
of  his  infinite  splendor ;  he  remembers  his  origin, 
and  when  he  comes  to  us,  it  is  not  under  cover  of 
our  darkness,  but  in  the  sincerity  of  his  light. 
And  because  he  is  Truth,  he  is  Liberty  ;  he  bows 
with  respect  before  the  liberty  of  the  soul,  his 
ii 


12  2  Christus  ad  Portam. 

image  and  offspring,  and  unlearns  the  language  of 
command,  to  employ  none  but  that  of  prayer. 
1  Open  to  me,  my  sister,  my  love,  my  undefiled,' 
he  says  in  the  sacred  song,  '  for  my  head  is  filled 
with  dew,  and  my  locks  with  the  drops  of  the 
night.'  '  Behold,'  he  says  in  the  Revelation, '  I 
stand  at  the  door  and  knock ;  if  any  man  hear  my 
voice  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him 
and  will  sup  with  him  and  he  with  me.'  He 
does  not  force  an  entrance  into  the  heart,  but  he 
enters  if  it  is  opened  to  him.  O  rapturous  words, 
which  show  that  with  God,  love  has  the  same 
delicacy  as  with  man  !  True  love  respects  as  well 
as  loves,  and  will  accept  its  triumph  only  at  the 
hands  of  our  free  choice." 


PART   II. 
Christ   a    Guest 


If  any  man  hear  my  voice  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him, 
and  will  sup  with  him,  and  he  with  me. — Rev.  3  :  20. 

I  rose  up  to  open  to  my  Beloved  ;  and  my  hands  dropped  with 
myrrh,  and  my  fingers  with  sweet  smelling  myrrh,  upon  the  handles  of 
the  lock.    I  opened  to  my  Beloved.— Solomon's  Song  5  :  5. 


CHAPTER   I 


SONGS   OF   OUR   OWN   TONGUE. 

Thy  God  was  making  haste  into  thy  roof, 
Thy  hnmhle  faith  and  fear  keeps  Him  aloof. 
He  '11  he  thy  Guest ;  because  He  may  not  he 
He  '11  come  into  thy  house  ?  No,  into  thee. 

CRASHAW. 

OF  the  four  lines  with  which  this  chapter 
opens  and    of    his    readers'    acquaintance 

with  them,  George  Macdonald  writes,  They 
are  "  dear  to  me,  but  probably  unknown  to  most 
of  them,  written  I  must  tell  them,  for  the  sake  of 
their  loving  Catholicity,  by  an  English  Jesuit  of 
the  17th  century.  They  touch  the  very  heart  of 
the  relation  between  Jesus  and  the  centurion." 
"  I  am  not  worthy  that  Thou  shouldest  come 
under  my  roof;"  such  was  the  humble  confession 
of  the  Roman  soldier,  and  it  has  been  the  cry 
forced   from    the   Christian    heart   wherever   the 

11*  (125) 


126  Ch  ristus  ad  Porta m. 

Lord  has  revealed  Himself,  from  the  earliest  days 
of  His  ministry  to  the  present.  "Whose  shoe 
latchet  I  am  not  worthy  to  unloose,"  acknowledges 
that  rigid  moralist,  the  ascetic  Baptist.  "  De- 
part from  me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man,  O  Lord,"  is 
the  involuntary  prayer  of  impetuous  Peter.  "  The 
least  of  all — who  am  not  meet,"  are  the  self  ac- 
cusing words  of  him  who  had  been  the  proud 
persecutor  of  the  disciples,  making  havoc  of  the 
church  ;  and,  to-day,  when  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
is  heard  without,  "  Open  to  me  my  beloved  ;"  the 
penitent  soul  responds  as  it  unbars  the  door,  "  I 
am  not  worthy."  But  Jesus  bestowed  upon  the 
self-abased  centurion  a  higher  honor  than  His 
mere  bodily  presence  in  an  earthly  home,  better 
than  the  gift  of  renewed  life  to  his  servant,  when 
He  stooped  to  enter  that  heart  full  of  faith  the 
like  of  which  had  not  been  found  in  Israel.  So 
now,  He  is  better  to  us  than  our  hopes.  He  not 
only  deigns  to  enter  as  a  Guest,  but  He,  Himself, 
heaps  the  board,  and  serves  the  repast.  Humility 
in  His  presence,  and  shame  at  the  long  delay  in 
answering  His  call,  together  with  a  joyful  recog- 
nition of  the  soul's  duty  to  her  Heavenly  Spouse 
and  of  His  infinite  condescension  in  choosing  her, 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue,       127 

are  the  characteristic  emotions  represented  in  the 
selections  which  we  have  made  for  this  part  of 
our  subject. 

We  quote  first  from  the  Holy  Sonnets  of  Dr.  John 
Donne,  leader  of  the  English  metaphysical  poets, 
who  wrote  in  the  first  part  of  the  17  th  century. 
In  the  character  of  him  drawn  by  Mr.  Isaac  Wal- 
ton, we  find  earnest  commendations  of  his  bodily 
presence,  his  intellect  and  his  heart.  We  there 
read — "  The  melancholy  and  pleasant  humour 
were  in  him  so  contempered  that  each  gave  ad- 
vantage to  the  other,  and  made  his  company  one 
of  the  delights  of  mankind. 

"  His  fancy  was  inimitably  high,  equalled  only  by 
his  great  wit ;  both  being  made  useful  by  a  com- 
manding judgment.  He  did  much  contemplate 
(especially  after  he  had  entered  his  sacred  call- 
ing) the  mercies  of  Almighty  God,  the  immortali- 
ty of  the  soul,  and  the  joys  of  heaven;  and 
would  often  say,  in  a  kind  of  sacred  ecstasy, 
1  Blessed  be  God,  that  He  is  God  only,  and  divine- 
ly like  Himself.'  He  was  earnest  and  unwearied 
in  the  search  of  knowledge,  with  which  his  vig- 
orous soul  is  now  satisfied,  and  employed  in  a 
continual  praise  of  that  God  that  first  breathed  it 


128  Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 

into  his  active  body  ;  that  body  which  once  was  a 
temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  is  now  become 
a  small  quantity  of  Christian  dust. 

"  But  I  shall  see  it  reanimated." 

The  sonnet,  though  showing  the  faults  of  the 
age,  is  yet  not  without  its  merits. 


HOLY   SONNET. 

Batter  my  heart,  three-personed  God,  for 
you 

As  yet  but  knock  ;  breathe,  shine,  and  seek 
to  mend  ; 

That  I  may  rise  and  stand  ;  o'erthrovv  me, 
and  bend 

Your  force,  to  break,  blow,  burn,  and  make 
me  new, 

1  like  a  usurpt  town  to  another  due, 

Labour  to  admit  you,  but  oh  !  to  no  end  ; 

Reason,  your  victory  in  me,  me  should  de- 
fend, 

But  is  captived  and  proves  weak  or  untrue  ; 

Yet  dearly  I  love  you,  and  would  be  loved 
fain, 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue.        129 

But  am  betrothed  unto  jour  enemy  ; 
Divorce    me,    untie,    or    break    that   knot 

again, 
Take  me  to  you,  imprison  me,  for  I, 
Except  you  enthral  me,  never  shall  be  free  ; 
Nor  ever  chaste,  except  you  ravish  me. 

Passing  now  over  two  centuries,  we  draw  from 
modern  English  collections  two  anonymous  poems, 
the  first  taken  from  Kennedy's  Hymnologia  Chris- 
tiana. 

Behold  thy  King  cometh  to  thee.— Zech.  ix. 

Unfold  your  gates,  and  open 

The  door  of  every  heart ; 
Their  tokens  of  rejoicing, 

Let  field  and  wood  impart ; 
The  path  with  branches  strewing, 

Adorn  the  sacred  way  ; 
Throw  wide  the  gates  of  glory  ; 

The  King  must  pass,  to-day. 

O  mighty  King,  O  Jesu, 

My  heart  shall  welcome  Thee, 


1 30  Ch  ristus  ad  Portam. 

My  heart  too  little  worthy 

The  Saviour's  home  to  be. 
Yet  will  I  not,  distrustful, 

Refuse  the  royal  Guest ; 
The  publican  and  sinner 

Received  Him,  and  were  blest. 

O  Lord,  in  faith  and  meekness, 

My  heart  would  Thee  retain, 
And  yield  Thee  love  unfeigned, 

Whom  none  have  loved  in  vain, 
For  all  who  bid  Thee  welcome 

While  passing  on  Thy  way, 
A  home  Thou  hast  prepared 

In  everlasting  day. 

The  second  is  from  the  Lyra  Eucharista,  and 
deserves  a  more  complete  acknowledgment  at 
its  author's  hands,  than  the  mere  initials,  "  E.  L.  L." 

"He  came  unto  His  own  aod  His  own  received  Him  not." 

Out  on  the  world   unheeded   came    there 
One  at  midnight  hour, 
A  lowly  maid   His  mother  and   manger 
stall  His  bed  ; 


So7igs  of  our  own  Tojigue.       131 

Out  on  the  cold,  cold  winter,  when  the  snow 
lay  on  the  ground, 
He  came  a  tender  infant  to  Bethlehem's 
humble  shed. 


Out    on    the    world    unheeded — for    none 
knew  that  He  was  God, 
Save  His  parents,  and  the  Shepherds  and 
the  strangers  from  afar  ; 
These    were    His    sole   adorers,   these   the 
courtiers  of  the  King  ; 
The  world  saw  not  the  rising  of  the  bright 
and  morning  star. 


Out  on  the  world,  forsaken,  poor,  He  comes 
to  sinners,  still, 
When  storms  are  raging  fiercely,  and  'tis 
night  because  of  sin  ; 
Out  on  the  cold,  cold  winter,  to  their  thank- 
less hearts  He  comes, 
And  they  turn  their  faces  from  Him,  and 
will  not  take  Him  in. 


132  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Out  on  the  world,  neglected,  careless  Chris- 
tians love  Him  not, 
While  on  our  altars  dwelling,  veiled  in 
mystery  most  high  ; 
Unbelieving  they  reject  Him — they  will  not 
own  their  Lord, 
Out  on  the  cold,  cold   winter — for  they 
pass  unmindful  by. 


Out  on  the  world  forsaken — but  the  faithful 
take  Him  in, 
As  to  her  breast  did  Mary,  on  that  first 
glad  Christmas  night ; 
And  where'er  the  consecration  tells  of  the 
Hidden  God, 
They   bend  the  knee  and  worship  Him 
who  is  the  Light  of  light. 


And   every   lowly    bosom    which   receives 
Him  tenderly 
He  strengthens  with  His  presence,  and 
His  blessing  comfort  brings  ; 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue.       133 

What  joy  to  that  poor  dwelling  when  the 
Lord  of  glory  comes, 
Another  Bethlehem's  manger  to  enthrone 
the  King  of  kings. 


Such  be  my  heart,  Lord  Jesus,  this  blessed 
Christmas  morn  ; 
Cold,  cold,  the  world  unheeding,  but  my 
Guest  vouchsafe  to  be  ; 
Though  mean  and  poor  the  dwelling,  true 
my  heart's  glad  welcome  is, 
And  this    my    prayer   increasing  —  Stay 
Thou  evermore  with  me. 


Out  on  the  world  forsaken,  oh  !  regard  Thy 
children's  love — 
Our  tears  be  reparation  for  the  slights 
upon  Thee  thrown  ; 
May  the  Church's  great  thanksgiving,  this 
Holy  Sacrifice, 
Avail  for  all  the  thankless,  and  for  all  our 
sins  atone. 
12 


134  Christus  ad  Portam, 

Alleluia  !  Alleluia  !  sing  every  tongue  with 
joy! 
He  comes  to  dwell  amongst  us,  our  sweet 
sacramental  King  ; 
Raise  up  to  heaven  your  anthems,  let  them 
join  the  angel  songs, 
Telling  out  to  every  people  this  great  and 
wondrous  thing. 


Alleluia !    Alleluia !   till    death    our  voices 
Jiush, 
Till  we  join  the  Church  Triumphant  and 
reach  the  fount  of  grace, 
Then    no    more    the  hidden  Presence  nor 
eucharistic  rite, 
But   the    Bridegroom's  marriage  supper, 
and  to  see  Him  face  to  face. 


In  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern  may  be  found 
the  following  hymn  by  Rev.  W.  Walsham  How  : 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  standing, 
Outside  the  fast-closed  door, 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue.        135 

In  lowly  patience  waiting 

To  pass  the  threshold  o'er  : 
Shame  on  us,  Christian  brethren. 

His  Name  and  Sign  who  bear, 
O  shame,  thrice  shame  upon  us, 

To  keep  Him  standing  there. 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  knocking: 

And  lo  !  that  hand  is  scarred, 
And  thorns  Thy  brow  encircle, 

And  tears  Thy  face  have  marred  ; 
O  Love  that  passeth  knowledge, 

So  patiently  to  wait ! 
O  sin  that  hath  no  equal 

So  fast  to  bar  the  gate  ! 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  pleading 

In  accents  meek  and  low, 
"  I  died  for  you,  My  children, 

And  will  ye  treat  Me  so  ?" 
O  Lord,  with  shame  and  sorrow 

We  open  now  the  door ; 
Dear  Saviour  enter,  enter, 

And  leave  us  never  more.     Amen. 


136  Christies  ad  Portam. 

One  of  the  most  valued  hymnists  of  our  day  is 
Miss  Anna  L.  Waring,  of  Neath,  Wales,  some  of 
whose  Christian  lyrics  have  attained  great  popu- 
larity ;  but  probably  no  one  of  her  poems  has  so 
taken  the  Christian  world  by  storm  as  the  touch- 
ingly  beautiful  hymn — 

"  Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 
Is  portioned  out  to  me." 

If  our  memory  serves  us,  when  that  devout  prayer 
first  went  the  rounds  of  the  American  press,  each 
line  had  a  Bible  reference  annexed,  thus  show- 
ing how  thoroughly  the  verses  were  imbued  with 
the  Scripture  spirit.  In  the  heart  of  the  church 
this  hymn  is  honored,  standing  beside  the  master- 
pieces of  that  favored  trio — Dr.  Ray  Palmer,  Miss 
Phoebe  Cary  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Flower  Adams. 
Howbeit,  in  the  "  service  of  song  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord,"  it  has  not  attained  to  the  first  three. 
The  sweet  expression  of  faith  which  we  give  be- 
low, is  copied  from  her  Hymns  and  Meditations. 

If  any  man  hear  my  voice  and  open  the  door,  etc. — Rev.  iii  30. 

Son  of  Man,  my  heart  within, 
Pouring  light  on  all  I  see, 


So  Jigs  of  our  own  Tongue.        137 

Even  through  my  very  sin 
Holding  fellowship  with  me  ! 

Not  with  stern  upbraiding  word 

Didst  Thou  wake  my  slumbering  ear: 

Winning  were  the  tones  I  heard 
When  the  Judge  of  man  drew  near. 

He  in  whom  the  righteous  shine 
Came  His  own  condemned  to  bless ; 

And  this  guilty  soul  of  mine 
Knew  Him  by  His  gentleness. 

When  He  entered,  what  was  I  ? 

That  which  He  wTas  sent  to  save ; 
That  for  which  He  chose  to  die, 

Rising  glorious  from  the  grave. 

Victory  in  His  hand  He  bore ; 

Courage  with  His  Presence  came ; 
I  was  but  a  prey  before, — 

Then  He  called  me  by  His  Name. 

And  Avith  freely  offered  heart 
On  his  sacrifice  I  fed ; 
12* 


138  Christus  ad  For  tarn. 

He,  my  being's  vital  part, — 
He  the  lifter  of  my  head. 

Sin,  that  once  I  would  not  own, 

Then  His  searching  love  confessed  ; 

Shame,  that  else  I  had  not  known, 
Found  me  leaning  on  his  breast. 

He  can  touch  the  spirit  there 
With  a  grief  it  never  brings  ; 

Veiled  no  more  His  sacred  share 
In  our  base  and  bitter  things. 

That  which  feared  Him,  hiding  deep, 
Springs  to  His  consuming  sight: 

He  is  all  I  wish  to  keep 
In  this  fellowship  of  light. 

And  the  glory  who  can  show, 

When,  with  Him  upon  the  throne, 

We,  for  whom  He  stooped  so  low, 
Joy  to  live  by  God  alone  ? 

Son  of  Man,  at  meat  with  Thee 
Be  Thy  happy  servant  found, 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue*        139 

Strong  for  blessed  ministry 
In  the  hungry  darkness  round. 


From  American  sources  may  be  gathered  a  few 
poems.     The  first  is  found  in  The  Changed  Cross. 

MY   GUEST. 

I  have  a  wonderful  Guest, 
Who  speeds  my  feet,  who  moves  my  hands, 
Who   strengthens,  comforts,  guides,   com- 
mands, 

Whose  presence  gives  me  rest. 

He  dwells  within  my  soul : 
He  swept  away  the  filth  and  gloom, 
He  garnished  fair  the  empty  room, 

And  now  pervades  the  whole. 

For  aye,  by  day  and  night, 
He  keeps  the  portal — suffers  naught 
Defile  the  temple  He  has  bought, 

And  filled  with  joy  and  light. 

Once  '  twas  a  cavern  dim  ; 
The  home  of  evil  thoughts,  desires, 


140  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

Enkindled  by  infernal  fires 
Without  one  thought  of  Him. 

Regenerated  by  His  grace, 
Still  'tis  a  meagre  inn,  at  best, 
Wherein  the  King's  to  make  His  rest 

And  show  His  glorious  face. 

Yet,  Saviour,  ne'er  depart 
From  this  poor  earthly  cottage  home, 
Until  the  Father  bid  me  come, 

Whispering  within  my  heart : 

"  I  shake  these  cottage  walls ; 
Fear  not !  at  My  command  they  bow  ; 
My  heavenly  mansions  open  now, 

As  this  poor  dwelling  falls." 

Then  my  dear  wondrous  Guest 
Shall  bear  me  on  His  own  right  hand 
Unto  that  fair  and  Promised  Land 

Where  I  in  Him  shall  rest. 


The  second  of  .these  American  poems  is  copied 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue.        1 4 1 

from  the  manuscript  of  the  author,  Rev.  J.  Wilson 
Ward,  Jr.  The  verses  quoted  are  the  closing 
stanzas  of  a  longer  poem,  and  seem  to  us  full  of 
that  sweet  and  humble  Christian  spirit  which 
have  been  noticed  as  characterizing  the  hymns  of 
our  second  class. 

THE    HOMELESS   WAYFARER. 

King  of  Glory  !  looking  love  and  meek- 
ness, 

While  the  proud  world  scoffs  and  scorns, 
Still  Thou  waitest,  O,  unequalled  patience  ! 

On  Thy  head  a  crown  of  thorns. 

In  Thy  Father's  house  are  many  mansions, 
Pleasant  mansions,  bright  and  fair, 

Yet  Thy  patient  feet  still  wander  earthward, 
All  to  win  and  lead  us  there. 

Though  the  heart   was  made  a  home  for 
Jesus, 
Yret  it  knows  no  guest  but  sin  ; 
Though  He  stand  and  knock,  no  cheerful 
welcome 
Bids  the  blest  Wayfarer  in. 


142  Ck ristus  ad  Porta  m . 

At     my    door     the     wayworn     Wanderer 
knocketh, 

Wandering  where  fond  friends  are  few  ; 
And  He  waiteth  till  His  locks  are  dripping, 

Cold  and  wet  with  midnight  dew. 

I  behold  Thee,  O  Thou  Man  of  sorrows, 

Faint  and  footsore,  all  for  me  ; 
Let   my    dwelling,   mean,   and    small,   and 
wretched, 

Open  wide,  dear  Lord  to  Thee. 

Come !    O  come !    Thou  meek   and  lowly 
Jesus ! 
Dwell  with  me  and  be  my  Guest ; 
Come  Thou  Christ  of  God,  sweet   Elder 
Brother ! 
Cross  my  threshold  ;  bring  me  rest. 


From  Rev.  A.  C.  Thompson's  Christus  Conso- 
latory we  quote,  in  closing  this  chapter,  the  follow- 
ing exquisite  verses  by  Miss  Harriet  McEwen 
Kimball.  We  would  love  to  see  the  poem,  which 
is  rarely  suited  for  illustration,  well  represented 


Songs  of  our  own  Tongue.        143 

by  a  skillful  artist.  It  must  have  been  ai  one 
who  well  knew  what  earthly  woe  means,  that  the 
poet  gave  "  Speechless  Sorrow"  a  place  within  her 
house ;  and  still  we  read,  that  though  the  dumb 
attendant  was  bidden  to  trim  the  lamp  and  light 
the  fire,  it  was  in  blinding  darkness  that  the  soul 
groped  to  find  the  lock  and  turn  the  key. 

Thus  should  our  artist  paint  the  picture.  Into 
the  darkness  which  Sorrow  only  makes  more  dark 
the  light  should  stream,  as  the  Master  enters, 
glorifying  even  the  sombre  garments  of  that  silent 
guest.  "  They  shall  obtain  joy  and  gladness," 
foretold  the  gospel  prophet,  "  and  sorrow  and 
sighing  shall  flee  away." 


"SUPS   WITH   ME." 

Speechless  Sorrow  sat  with  me, 
I  was  sighing  wearily  ! 
Lamp  and  fire  were  out ;  the  rain 
Wildly  beat  the  window-pane. 
In  the  dark  we  heard  a  knock ; 
And  a  hand  was  on  the  lock ; 


144  Christus  ad  Portam. 

One  in  waiting  spake  to  me, 

Saying  sweetly, 
"  I  am  come  to  sup  with  thee." 

All  my  room  was  dark  and  damp ; 
"  Sorrow,"  said  I,  "  trim  the  lamp  ; 
Light  the  fire,  and  cheer  thy  face ; 
Set  the  guest-chair  in  its  place." 
And  again  I  heard  the  knock ; 
In  the  dark  I  found  the  lock — 
"  Enter  !  I  have  turned  the  key — 

Enter,  stranger, 
Who  art  come  to  sup  with  me  !" 

Opening  wide  the  door  He  came  ; 
But  I  could  not  speak  His  name, 
In  the  guest-chair  took  His  place, 
But  I  could  not  see  His  face. 
When  my  cheerful  fire  was  beaming, 
When  my  little  lamp  was  gleaming, 
And  the  feast  was  spread  for  three, 

Lo  !  my  Master, 
Was  the  Guest  that  supped  with  me  ! 


CHAPTER    II. 


SONGS    OF    OTHER    TONGUES    OR 
TIMES. 

"  Now  see  ye  qui  and  for  qnas  sake 
Crist  come  til  us  our  kind  to  take ; 
His  fust  corn  was  bodilye, 
Bot  an  other  est  gastilye, 
That  es  quen  Crist  gif  es  us  wille, 
His  commandment  to  fulfille  ; 
For  son  quen  we  haf  wil  to  do, 
Al  that  the  preachour  says  us  to — 
And  feles  our  harte  in  charite, 
In  sothe  ful  siker  may  we  he — 
That  Crist  is  comen  in  til  our  hertes 
Gastli,  that  us  til  goodnesse  ertes, 
Of  us  self  haf  we  noht  hot  sin, 
Bot  quen  Crist  wirkes  us  wit  in, 
Than  at  the  fust  beginne  we 
God  cresten  men  for  to  he." 

SO  -ran  the  Old  English  homily,  versified,  that 
thus  the  preacher  might  catch  the  ear,  and 
so  win  the  heart  of  his  rude  audience.  That  was 
the  age  of  Chaucer. 

It  was  a  century  later  —  a  full  hundred  years 
13  (i45) 


146  CJiristus  ad  Portam. 

before  Luther;  but  the  Christian  Church,  like  a 
strong  man  tossed  in  troubled  dreams  before 
awaking,  gave  many  a  sign  that  she  was  soon  to 
arise  and  cast  off  her  heavy  slumber.  Wicliffe 
in  England,  Huss  in  Bohemia,  Savonarola  in 
Florence,  had  already  disturbed  her  rest,  and  the 
Munich  manuscript  of  the  XVth  century,  from 
which  the  following  Latin  hymn  is  quoted,  leads 
to  the  belief  that  even  Bavaria  was  not  without 
its  witnesses  for  the  indwelling  Christ,  and  for  the 
salvation  that  comes  through  faith  in  His  name. 
The  beautiful  hymn  speaks  for  itself,  as  does  also 
Mr.  Chambers '  exquisite  English  translation 
which  is  subjoined,  taken  from  his  Lauda  Syon. 

ORATIO    PR^EPARATORIA    AD    SACRAM 
COMMUNIONEM. 

Salve  Sal  uberrima 

Tu  salus  infirm orum, 
Salve  Lux  pulcherrima, 

In  tenebris  caecorum. 

Salve  desiderium 
Tu  patrum  antiquorum, 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc,      147 

Salve  O  amantium 
Amator  amicorum. 

Salve  candidissime 

Tu  panis  angelorum, 
Salve  sapor  optime 

In  corde  beatorum. 

Tu  es  quern  veraciter 

Desiderat  cor  meum  ; 
Confiteor  tenaciter 

Te  hominem  et  Deum. 

Mea  conscientia 

Quaecumque  fert  obscura, 
Tua  de  praesentia 

Propellat  fides  pura. 

Mecum  nil  permaneat 
Quo  miser  sum  offensus  ; 

Totus  in  me  ardeat 
Amoris  tui  sensus. 

Mentem  meam  dulciter 
Divinitus  accende ; 


148  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Te  invisibiliter 
Praesentem  hie  ostende. 

Cordis  mei  nebulam 
Per  tuos  nunc  fulgores 

Omnem  fuga  maculam, 
Et  ejice  languores. 

Veni,  Christe  optime, 
Rex  veni,  Jesu  care ; 

Et  in  sinu  animae 
Gratanter  hospitare. 

Caritas  quae  aureo 
Sic  te  transfixit  telo, 

Ut  nos  ab  aethereo 
Tu  visitares  coelo, 

Vulneret  te  hodie 

Ut  nunc  ad  me  venire 

Rex  digneris  gloriae 
Nullius  memor  irae. 

Tibi  fac  hospitium, 
Per  gratiam  dulcoris.. 


Songs  of  other  Tongues ;  etc.      149 

Sedem  et  triclinium 
In  corde  peccatoris. 

Deus  amantissime, 

Nunc  mihi  conjungaris, 
Peccatrici  animae 

Nequaquam  irascaris. 

O  benigne  domine, 

Hoc  unum  precor  a  te, 
Fac  in  tuo  nomine 

Pro  ea  caritate, 

Qua  in  carnem  fragilem 

Dignatus  es  venire 
Ad  me  despicabilem 

Digneris  introire, 

Totus  mihi  jungere 

Salutis  meae  deus, 
Cor  meura  complectere 

Fidelis  hospes  meus. 

Quis  sim  ne  consideres — 
Peccator  sum  et  reus, 

13* 


150  Christies  ad  Port  am. 

Tu  cur  homo  ficres, 
Memento,  pie  deus. 

Caritate  nimia, 

Qua  crucem  ascendisti, 
Cui  amabilia 

Tu  membra  conjunxisti, 

Nunc  amoris  brachia 
Tu  super  me  extende, 

Abundanti  gratia 

Quod  praesens  sis,  ostende. 

Propera,  ingredere 

Et  veni  festinanter, 
Peccatori  jungere 

Te  rogo  nunc  amanter.     Amen. 


SALVE,  SALUBERRIMA. 

Hail  !  Thou,  who  from  heaven  on  high, 
Health  to  all  sickness  bearest ; 

Hail!     Unto  the  darkened  eye, 
Thou  of  all  the  light  the  fairest ; 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc,      151 

Hail !     Desire  which  life  transcends, 

Of  all  Thy  saints  departed  ; 
Hail !    Who  to  Thy  loving  friends, 

Art  e'er  the  Loving-Hearted. 

Hail !  Thou  bread  of  angels  blest, 

Most  sweet  and  ever  precious ; 
Hail !    Who  with  divinest  taste 

Dost  in  Thy  paths  refresh  us ; 
Thou  in  very  truth  art  He 

Whom  my  soul  desireth  ; 
God  and  man  I  worship  Thee, 

To  Thee  my  faith  aspireth. 

When  in  conscience  or  in  thought 

Guilt  or  dark  error  dwelleth, 
Faith  by  Thy  dear  presence  brought 

All  gloom  and  woe  dispelleth ; 
Make  me  all  the  fervor  feel 

Of  that  Thy  fire  divinest ; 
Now  Thyself  unseen  reveal, 

Who  e'er  in  secret  shinest. 

Let  the  clouds  which  dim  my  soul, 
Before  Thy  genial  splendor, 


152  CJiristus  ad  Portam. 

Hence,  away,  far  distant  roll, 
And  leave  it  pure  and  tender. 

Come  !  O  Christ,  King  ever  blest, 
Come  !    Thou  one  consolation, 

In  my  heart  a  welcome  Guest, 
Fix  Thy  glad  habitation. 

May  that  golden  shaft  of  love, 

Which  once  so  deeply  smote  Thee, 
And  from  Heaven,  Thy  throne  above, 

Into  this  sad  world  brought  Thee, 
Wound  anew  Thy  tender  heart, 

That  Thou,  in  glory  reigning, 
May'st  to  me  Thyself  impart, 

From  all  Thy  wrath  upraising. 

Here  Thy  blessed  sojourn  make, 

Fragrance  and  joy  diffusing  ; 
Rest  in  my  sad  bosom  take, 

Therein  Thy  mansion  choosing. 
God  of  love  and  clemency, 

Now  to  Thyself  unite  me  ; 
And,  transgressor  though  I  be, 

Ne'er  in  displeasure  slight  me. 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      153 

Lord,  of  Thee  this  gift  I  claim, 

For  this  one  mercy  pleading  ; 
For  thine  ever-blessed  Name, 

For  that,  Thy  Love  exceeding, 
Which  erst  made  Thee  deign  to  be 

Of  our  frail  flesh  partaker  ; 
With  grace  and  kindness  visit  me, 

Thy  servant,  O  my  Maker. 

Choose  me  for  Thy  dwelling-place, 

O  God  of  my  salvation  ; 
Fold  my  heart  in  thine  embrace, 

Sweet  Guest,  take  here  Thy  station ! 
Think  not  how  I  am  with  Thee, 

A  vile  and  weak  transgressor ; 
Rather  how,  made  Man,  for  me 

Thou  art  an  Intercessor. 

By  that  mighty  Love  which  moved 
Thee  on  that  cross  ascending, 

When  thereon  Thy  limbs  beloved 
Thou  wast  meekly  bending ; 

So  with  loving,  kind  embrace, 

Cast,  now,  Thine  arms  around  me  : 


154  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

And  by  the  bounties  of  Thy  grace 
Give  proof  that  I  have  found  Thee. 


Two  centuries  later  when  the  "  Great  Elector  " 
governed  Prussia,  Gerhardt  was  singing  his  sweet 
songs  for  the  Lutheran  Church,  and  not  for  his 
own  Church  alone,  but  for  the  Church  Universal. 
We  quote  from  him  several  verses  taken  from 
Knapp's  Liederschatz,  No  302,  translated  by  Miss 
Winkworth ;  the  remainder  of  the  hymn  has  no 
connection  with  our  subject. 

WIE   SOLL   ICH   DICH   EMPFANGEN  ? 

Wie  soil  ich  dich  empfangen  ? 

Und  wie  begegnen  dir, 
O  aller  Welt  Verlangen 

O  meine  Seele  Zier? 
O  Jesu,  Jesu,  setze 

Mir  selbst  die  Leuchte  bei, 
Damit  was  dich  ergotze, 

Mir  kund  und  wissend  sey  ! 


Songs  of  other  Tongues^  etc,      155 

Dein  Zion  streut  dir  Palmen 

Und  grline  Zweige  bin  ; 
Und  ich  will  dir  in  Psalmen 

Ermuntern  meinen  Sinn. 
Mein  Herze  soil  dir  griinen 

In  stetem  Lob  und  Preis, 
Und  deinem  Namen  dienen 

So  gut  es  kann  und  weisz. 


Ich  lag  in  schweren  Banden  : 

Du  kommst  und  machst  mich  los. 
Ich  stund  in  Spott  und  Schanden  : 

Du  kommst  und  machst  mich  grosz, 
Und  hebst  mich  hoch  zen  Ehren, 

Und  schenkst  mir  groszes  Gut, 
Das  sich  nicht  loszt  verzehren, 

Wie  eitler  Reichthum  thut. 


Nichts,  nichts  hat  dich  getrieben 
Zu  mir  vom,  Himmelszelt, 

Als  dein  getreues  Lieben, 
Damit  du  alle  Welt 


156  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

In  lhren  tausend  Plagen 
Und  groszer  Jammerlast. 

Die  kein  Mund  kann  ausagen, 
So  fest  umfangen  hast. 

Das  schreib  '  in  deine  Herzen, 

Du  hoch  betriibtcs  Heer, 
Bei  welchem  Gram  und  Schmerzen 

Sich  haufen  mehr  und  mehr. 
Seyd  unverzagt !  ihr  habet 

Die  Hiilfe  vor  der  Thiir  : 
Der  eure  Herzen  labet 

Und  trostet,  stent  all  hier. 

Ihr  diirft  euch  nicht  bemlihen, 

Noch  fragen,  Tag  und  Nacht 
Wie  ihr  ihn  wollet  ziehen 

Mit  eures  Armes  Macht, 
Er  kommt,  er  kommt,  mit  Willen, 

1st  voller  Lieb'  und  Lust, 
All '  Angst  und  Noth  zu  stillen, 

Die  ihm  an  euch  bewuszt. 

Auch  diirft  ihr  nicht  ershrecken 
Vor  eurer  Siindenschuld  ; 


Songs  of  other  Tongttes,  etc,      157 

Nein,  Jesus  will  sie  decken 
Mit  seiner  Lieb '  und  Huld. 

Er  kommt,  er  kommt  den  Siindern 
Zum  Trost  und  wahren  Heil, 

Schafft,  dasz  bei  Gottes  Kindern 
Verbleib  ihr  Erb '  und  Theil. 


/ r      (  How  shall  I  meet  Thee  ?  How  my  heart  "^ 
Receive  her  Lord  aright  ? 
Desire  of  all  the  earth  Thou  art ; 
^        My  hope,  my  sole  delight !  . 

Kindle  the  lamp.  Thou  Lord,  alone, 

Half  dying  in  my  breast, 
And  make  Thy  gracious  pleasure  known 
How  I  may  greet  Thee  best. 

Her  budding  boughs  and  fairest  palms 

Thy  Zion  strews  around  ; 
And  songs  of  praise  and  sweetest  psalms 

From  my  glad  heart  shall  sound. 
My  desert  soul  breaks  forth  in  flowers, 

Rejoicing  in  Thy  fame  ; 


1 5  8  Ch  ristus  ad  Port  am. 

And  puts  forth  all  her  sleeping  powers 

To  honor  Jesus'  name. 
t 

w 
In  heavy  bonds  ^languished  long,    > 

Thou  com'st  to  set  me  free  ; 

The  scorn  of  every  mocking  tongue — 


\ 


Thou  com'st  to  honor  me.  i 

heavenly  crown  Thou  dost  bestow 
And  gifts  of  priceless  worth, 
That  vanish  not,  as  here  below 
The  riches  of  the  earth. 

ri     Naught,  naught,  dear  Lord,  had  power  to 
move 
Thee  from  Thy  rightful  place, 
Save  that  almighty,  wondrous  love 
Wherewith  Thou  dost  embrace 
This  weary  world  and  all  her  woe, 

Her  load  of  grief  and  ill 
And  sorrow,  more  than  man  can  know  : 
Thy  love  is  deeper  still. 

O  write  this  promise  in  your  heart, 
Ye  sad  at  heart,  with  whom 


Songs  of  other.  Tongues,  etc.      159 

Sorrows  fall  thick,  and  joys  depart, 
And  darker  grows  your  gloom. 

Despair  not,  for  your  help  is  near, 
He  standeth  at  the  door, 

Who  best  can  comfort  you  and  cheer, 
He  comes,  nor  stayeth  more. 


Si 


Vex  not  your  souls  with  care,  nor  grieve 

And  labour  longer  thus, 
As  though  your  arm  could  aught  achieve, 

And  bring  Him  down  to  us. 
He  comes,  He  comes  with  ready  will, 

By  pity  moved  alone  ; 
All  pain  to  soothe,  all  tears  to  still, 

To  Him  they  all  are  known. 

/  Vc 

Ye  shall  not  shrinkmor  turn  aside, 

Fearing  to  see  His  face, 
So  deep  $our  sins,  forjie  will  hide 

The  darkest  with  His  grace  ; 
He  comes,  He  comes  to  save  from  sin, 

All  sinners  to  release. 
For  all  the  sons  of  God  to  win 
v  The  heritage  of  peace.y    . 


160  Christies  ad  Portam. 

Among  the  many  who  made  melody  with  Ger- 
hardt  in  the  German  tongue,  though  in  songs  of 
lower  key,  we  first  notice  George  Weiszil  of 
Konigsberg.  His  beautiful  hymn  "  Macht  hoch 
die  Thiir,  die  Thor  '  macht  weit,"was  harmonized 
by  Johann  Criiger,  the  famed  composer  of 
chorals.  From  Miss  Winkworth's  translation  we 
quote  only  a  few  verses. 


O  BLEST  the  land,  the  city  blest, 
Where  Christ  the  Ruler  is  confest ! 
O  happy  hearts  and  happy  homes 
To  whom  this  King  in  triumph  comes  ! 
The  cloudless  Sun  of  joy  He  is, 
Who  bringeth  pure  delight  and  bliss  ! 

O  Comforter  Divine, 

What  boundless  grace  is  Thine  ! 

Fling  wide  the  portals  of  your  heart, 
Make  it  a  temple  set  apart 
From  earthly  use,  for  Heaven's  employ, 
Adorned  with  prayer  and  love  and  joy. 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      161 

So  shall  your  Sovereign  enter  in, 
And  new  and  nobler  life  begin. 
To  Thee,  O  God,  be  praise 
For  word  and  deed  and  grace. 

Redeemer,  come  !     I  open  wide 
My  heart  to  Thee  :  here,  Lord,  abide  ! 
Let  me  Thy  inner  presence  feel ; 
Thy  grace  and  love  in  me  reveal ; 
Thy  Holy  Spirit  guide  me  on 
Until  our  glorious  goal  be  won  ! 
Eternal  praise  and  fame 
Be  offered,  Saviour  to  Thy  name. 

In  the  original  this  reads : 

O,  wohl  dem  Land,  o  wohl  der  Stadt 

So  diesen  Konig  bei  sich  hat ; 

Wohl  alien  Herzen  insgemein, 

Da  dieser  Konig  ziehet  ein ! 

Er  ist  die  rechte  Seelen  sonn', 

Bringt  mit  sich  lauter  Freud'  und  Wonn' : 

Gelobet  sei  mein  Gott 

Mein  T  roster  friih  und  spat ! 
14* 


1 62  Christies  ad  Portam. 

Macht  hoch  die  Thiir,  die  Thore  weit 
Eu'r  Herz  zum  Tempel  zubereit't; 
Die  zweiglein  der  Gottseligkeit 
Steckt  auf  mit  Andacht,  Lust  und  Freud'; 
So  kommt  der  Konig  auch  zu  euch, 
Ja  Heil  und  Leben  mit  zugleich. 
Gelobet  sei  mein  Gott, 
Voll  Rath,  voll  That,  voll  Grad'. 

Komm,  o  mein  Heiland,  Jesu  Christ, 
Mein's  Herzen's  Thur  dir  often  ist: 
Ach  zeuch  mit  deiner  Gnade  ein ; 
Dein  Freundlichkeit  auch  uns  erschein'; 
Dein  heil'ger  Geist  uns  fiihr  und  leit' 
Den  Weg  zur  ew'gen  Seligkeit 

Dem  Namen  dein,  O  Herr. 

Sei  ewig  Preis  und  ehr' ! 


And  the  wife  of  the  Great  Elector  herself, 
Louisa  Henrietta,  of  Brandenburg,  noble  and 
graceful,  fair  and  good,  sweet  Christian  woman 
and  loving  wife,  skillful  in  state  affairs  and  wise 


Songs  sfother  Tongues,  etc.      163 

in  counsel,  was  also  one  of  the  Church's  sweet 
singers,  and  her  hymns  are  counted  as  priceless  and 
imperishable  as  is  her  own  most  blessed  memory. 
We  quote  from  the  beloved  Electress  a  few  verses, 
giving,  as  before,  Miss  Winkworth's  translation  : 


I  WILL  return  unto  the  Lord 

From  all  my  evil  ways ; 
O  God,  do  Thou  Thy  help  afford, 

Teach  me  to  seek  Thy  face ; 
Thy  holy  Spirit's  strength  impart, 
Who  can  anew  create  my  heart ; 

Deny  me  not  this  grace. 

For  man  sees  not  his  wretched  plight 
Till  Thy  touch  make  him  see ; 

Without  Thy  Spirit's  inner  light 
All  blind  and  dead  is  he, 

Biased  in  sense  and  will  and  deed ; 

O  Father,  let  me  now  be  freed 
From  this  great  misery  ! 

Lord,  knock  in  mercy  at  my  door, 
And  all  that  I  have  done 


164  Christus  ad  Portarn. 

Against  Thee,  do  Thou  set  before 

This  heart,  till  it  is  won 
To  mourn  that  it  was  e'er  so  weak, 
And  in  my  grief  adown  this  cheek 
Hot  tears  of  sorrow  run. 


Then  with  Thy  Father  intercede, 
That  He  no  more  should  think 

Of  all  my  sins,  each  evil  deed 
That  makes  me  quail  and  shrink  ! 

Ah  !  let  the  burden  of  my  guilt, 

For  which  such  precious  blood  was  spilt, 
Beneath  the  ocean  sink  ! 

And  henceforth  will  I,  day  by  day, 
With  strenuous,  ceaseless  care, 

From  all  false  pleasures  turn  away 
And  rather  all  things  bear 

Than  willingly  to  sin  give  place : 

Dear  Lord,  give  Thou  Thy  strength  and 
grace 
To  do  as  I  declare  ! 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      165 

To  the  same  period  belongs  Joharm  Frank,  of 
Saxony,  a  Christian  poet  of  rare  fervor  and  indi- 
viduality. The  hymn  of  his,  which  is  given 
below,  "  Das  Salbungsvollste  aller  Abendsmahls- 
lieder,"  was  also  harmonized  by  J.  Criiger.  We 
have  found  several  renderings  of  the  poem,  but 
cannot  tell  which  is  the  original  form,  though, 
probably,  the  one  annexed  is  the  first. 


Schmucke  dich,  o  Hebe  Seele, 
Lasz  die  dunkle  Slindenhohle, 
Komm  aus  helle  Licht  gegangen, 
Fange  herrlich  an  zu  prangen ! 
Denn  der  Herr  voll  Heil  and  Gnaden 
Will  dich  jetzt  zu  Gaste  laden, 
Der  den  Himmel  kann  verwalten, 
Will  jetzt  Herberg'  in  dir  halten. 

Eile  wie  Verlobte  pflegen, 
Deinem  Brautigam  entgegen, 
Der  da  mit  dem  Gnadenhammer 
Klopft  an  deine  Herzenskammer. 


1 66  Christus  ad  Poi'tam. 

Offn'  ihm  bald  des  Geistes  Pforten 
Red'  ihm  an  mit  schonen  worten 
Herr  dich  glaiibig  zu  genieszen 
Lasz  mich  deiner  nicht  mehr  missen. 

Zwar  in  Kaufung  theurer  Waaren 
Pflegt  man  sonst  kein  Geld  zu  sparen 
Ober  du  willst  fur  die  Gaben 
Deine  Huld  kein  Gelt  nicht  haben, 
Weil  in  alien  Berg  werksgrlinden 


Kein  solch  Kleinod  ist  zu  finden — 
Das  die  blut  gefiillten  Schaalen 
Und  dies  Manna  kann  bezahlen. 


Ach,  wie  hungert  mein  Gemiithe, 
Menschenfreund,  nach  Deiner  Gute; 
Ach,  wie  pfleg'  ich  oft  mit  Thranen 
Mich  nach  dieser  Kost  zu  sehnen; 
Ach,  wie  pfleget  mich  zu  diirsten 
Nach  dem  Trank  des  Lebensfiirsten ; 
Wiinschte  stets,  dasz  mein  Gebeine 
Sich  durch  Gott  mit  Gott  vereine ! 

Beides  Freude  und  auch  zettern 
Lasset  sich  in  mir  jetzt  wettern  ; 


So7igs  of  other  Tongues,  etc,      167 

Das  Geheimnisz  diesen  Speise 
Und  die  unerforschte  Wcise 
Machen  dasz  ich  friih  vermerke 
Herr  !  die  Grosze  deiner  Werke. 
1st  auch  wohl  ein  Mensch  zu  finden 
Du  dein  Allmacht  kaun  ergrunden? 

Nein,  Vernunft,  hier  muszt  du  weichen, 
Kannst  das  Wunder  nicht  erreichen  : 
Dasz  diesz  Brod  nie  wird  verzehret ; 
Ob  es  gleich  viel  Tausend  nahret ; 
Und  dasz  mit  dem  Saft  der  Reben 
Uns  wird  Christi  Blut  gegeben 
O  der  groszen  Heimlichkeiten, 
Die  nur  Gottes  Geist  kann  deuten ! 

Jesu,  meine  Lebenssonne, 
Jesu,  meine  Frend'  und  Wonne, 
Jesu,  Du  mein  ganz  Beginnen, 
Lebensquell  und  Licht  der  Sinnen  ! 
Hier  fall  ich  zu  Deinen  Fiissen, 
Laz  mich  wurdiglich  geniessen 
Diese  Deine  Himmelsspeise, 
Mir  zum  Heil  und  Dir  z..^  Preise. 


1 68  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Herr,  es  hat  Dein  treues  Lieben 
Dich  von  HimmeJ  hergetrieben, 
Dasz  Du  willig  hast  Dein  Leben 
In  den  Tod  fur  uns  gegeben, 
Und  dazu  ganz  unverdrossen 
Herr,  Dein  Blut  fur  uns  vergossen, 
Das  uns  jetz  kann  kraftig  tranken, 
Deiner  Liebe  zu  gedenken. 

Jesu,  wahres  Brod  des  Lebens, 
Hilf,  dasz  ich  doch  nicht  vergebens, 
Oder  mir  vielleicht  zum  Schaden, 
Sei  zu  Deinem  Tisch  geladen. 
Lasz  mich  deuch  diesz  Seelen-essen 
Deine  Liebe  recht  ermessen, 
Dasz  ich  einst,  wic  jetzt  auf  erden 
Mog  Dein  Gast  in  Himmel  werden. 

In  another  version  the  second  verse  reads 

Eile  wie  Verlobte  pflegen, 
Deinem  Brautigam  entgegen, 
Der  mit  slissen  Gnaden  worten 
Klopft  an  deines  Herzens  Pforten  ! 


So  Jigs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      169 

Eile  sie  Ihm  auf  zuschliessen, 
Wirf  dich  hin  zu  Seinen  Fiissen, 
Sprich  :  O  Herr,  lasz  Dich  umfassen 
Von  Dir  will  ich  nimmer  lassen  ! 


And  the  fifth  is 

Herr !  ich  freue  mich  mit  Beben 
Dasz  Du  mir  Dich  selbst  willst  geben. 
Mir  Dein  Leben  zu  gewahren 
Und  mich  mich  Dir  selbst  zu  nahren. 
Unerforschlich  heil'ge  Weise  ! 
Wunderbare  Seelen  Speise ! 
O  wer  darf  sich  unterwinden 
Diesz  Geheimnisz  zu  ergninden  ? 


The  translation  (Miss  Winkworth's)  we    copy 
from  an  English  Choral  Book. 

Deck  thyself,  my  soul,  with  gladness, 
Leave  the  gloomy  haunts  of  sadness, 
Come  into  the  daylight's  splendor, 
There  with  joy  thy  praises  render 
15 


1 70  Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 

Unto  Him  whose  grace  unbounded 
Hath  this  wondrous  banquet  founded ; 
High  o'er  all  the  heavens  He  reigneth, 
Yet  to  dwell  with  thee  He  deigneth. 

Hasten  as  a  bride  to  meet  Him, 
And  with  loving  reverence  greet  Him. 
For  with  words  of  life  immortal 
Now  He  knocketh  at  thy  portal ; 
Haste  to  ope  the  gates  before  Him, 
Saying,  while  thou  dost  adore  Him, 
"  Suffer  Lord,  that  I  receive  Thee, 
And  I  never  more  will  leave  Thee." 

Ah  !  how  hungers  all  my  spirit 
For  the  love  I  do  not  merit ; 
Oft  have  I  with  sighs  fast  thronging 
Thought  upon  this  food  with  longing ; 
In  the  battle  well  nigh  worsted, 
For  this  cup  of  life  have  thirsted ; 
For  the  Friend  who  here  invites  us, 
And  to  God  Himself  unites  us. 

Now  I  sink  before  Thee  lowly, 
Filled  with  joy  most  deep  and  holy, 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      1 7 1 

As  with  trembling  awe  and  wonder 
On  Thy  mighty  works  I  ponder ; 
How,  by  mystery  surrounded, 
Depths  no  man  hath  ever  sounded, 
None  may  dare  to  pierce  unbidden, 
Secrets  that  with  Thee  are  hidden. 

Sun,  who  all  my  life  dost  brighten, 
Light,  who  dost  my  soul  enlighten, 
Joy,  the  sweetest  man  e'er  knoweth, 
Fount,  whence  all  my  being  floweth, 
At  Thy  feet  I  cry,  my  Maker, 
Let  me  be  a  fit  partaker 
Of  this  blessed  food  from  heaven, 
For  our  good,  Thy  glory,  given. 

Jesus,  Bread  of  Life,  I  pray  Thee, 
Let  me  gladly  here  obey  Thee. 
Never  to  my  hurt  invited, 
Be  Thy  love  with  love  requited  ; 
From  this  banquet  let  me  measure, 
Lord,  how  vast  and  deep  its  treasure, 
Through  the  gifts  Thou  here  dost  give  me 
As  Thy  guest  in  heaven  receive  me. 


172 


Christ  us  ad  Port  am. 


From  Vol.  III.  of  Rambach's  Anthologie 
Christlichen  Gesange,  we  copy  the  following 
poem,  entitled  "  Liebe  zu  Jesu,"  written  by  Mar- 
tin Jahn,  another  writer  of  the  XVIIth  century. 
The  author  is  betrayed  into  the  errors  of  the  or- 
dinary German  hymn  writer,  sameness  and  repeti- 
tion, but,  for  all  that,  the  thought  is  very  sweet. 
"We  have  failed  in  our  translation  to  preserve 
throughout  the  hymn,  the  same  closing  line  for 
each  stanza.  It  will  be  seen  that  in  the  original 
this  is  done  with  but  little  variation  after  the 
first  three  verses,  "  Meinen  Jesum  lasz  ich 
nicht,"  or  "  Lasz  ich  meinen  Jesum  nicht,"  being 
the  usual  form  ;  but,  so  far  as  possible,  we  have 
preserved  the  feeling  of  the  German. 

LIEBE   ZU   JESU. 
Jesu,  meiner  Seelen-Wonne, 

Jesu,  meine  beste  Lust, 
Jesu,  meine  Freudensonne, 

Jesu,  dir  ist  ja  bewuszt, 
Wie  ich  dich  so  herzlich  liebe 
Und  mich  ohne  dich  betriibe. 
Drum,  O  Jesu,  komm  zu  mir, 
Und  bleib  bey  mir  fur  und  fiir. 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      i  J 3 

Kommst  du  ?  Ja,  du  kommst  gegangen, 

Jesu  du  bist  schon  allhier, 
Klopfest  stark  und  mit  Verlangen 

An'  an  meine  Herzensthiir, 
Bleib  doch  nicht,  so  draussen  stehen  ! 
Willst  du  wieder  von  mir  gehen  ? 
Ach  !  ich  lasse  dich  durchaus 
Nicht  weggehn  von  meinem  Haus. 

Ach  !  nun  hab  ich  endlich  funden 

Den,  den  meine  Seele  liebt; 
Der  sich  mit  mir  hat  verbunden 

Und  sich  selbstfur  mich  hingiebt. 
Den  will  ich  nun  vest  umfassen 
Und  durchaus  nicht  von  mir  lassen, 
Bis  er  mir  den  Seven  spricht  ; 
Meiner  Jesum  lasz  ich  nicht. 

Wohl  mir  dasz  ich  Jesum  habe ! 

O  wie  veste  halt'  ich  ihn, 
Dasz  er  mir  mein  Herze  labe, 

Wenn  ich  krank  und  traurig  bin ! 
Jesum  hab'  ich,  der  mich  liebet 
Und  sein  Leben  fur  mich  giebet. 

is* 


1 74  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Ach  !  drum  lasz  ich  Jesum  nicht 
Wenn  mir  gleich  das  Herze  bricht. 

Musz  ich  alles  gleich  verlassen, 
Was  ich  hab  in  dieser  Welt, 

Will  ich  doch  im  Herzen  fassen 
Meinem  Jesum  ;  der  gef  allt 

Mir  vor  alien  andern  Schatzen, 

An  dem  ich  mich  kann  ergatzen, 

Er  ist  meine  zuversicht ; 

Meinen  Jesum  lasz  ich  nicht. 

Ach  !   wer  wollte  Jesum  lassen  ? 

Jesum  lasz  ich  nimmermehr. 
Andre  mogen  Jesum  hassen  : 

Jesum  ich  allein  begehr. 
In  den  gut  und  bosen  Tagen, 
Dasz  er  mir  mein  Kreuz  hief  tragen, 
Weil  er  ist  der  Weg  und  Licht, 
Lasz  ich  meinen  Jesum  nicht. 

Wenn  ich  nur  kann  Jesum  haben, 
Nach  dem  Andren  frag  ich  nicht, 

Er  kann  meine  Seele  laben, 
Und  ist  meine  zuversicht. 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      175 

In  den  letzten  Todesziigen, 
Wenn  ich  hlilflos  da  miisz  liegen, 
Und  mir  bricht  der  Augen  Licht, 
Lasz  ich  meinen  Jesum  nicht. 

Jesus  bleibet  meine  Freude, 

Meines  Herzens  Trost  und  Saft ; 
Jesus  steuret  allem  Leide  ; 

Er  ist  meines  Lebens  Kraft ; 
Meiner  Augen  Lust  and  Sonne, 
Meiner  Seelen  Schatz  und  Wonne, 
O  drum  lasz  ich  Jesum  nicht 
Aus  dem  Herzen  und  Gesicht ! 


I   HAVE   JESUS. 

Jesu,  Thou  my  soul's  best  pleasure  ! 

Jesu,  Thou  my  heart's  delight ! 
Jesu,  sunshine  without  measure, 

Banishing  the  darksome  night ! 
Thou  dost  know  how  much  I.  love  Thee, 
How  I  grieve  if  Thou  remove  Thee ; 
Therefore  enter  Thou  the  door, 
Enter  and  depart  no  more. 


1 76  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Com'st  Thou?  Yea,  the  Lord  draws  nigh, 

And  already,  lo  !   He  knocks  ; 
Knocking  loud  with  strong  desire 

Whilst  my  soul  draws  back  the  locks. 
Stand  not  thus  without,  my  Saviour, 
Wilt  Thou  rob  me  of  Thy  favor  ? 
Thou  shalt  never  turn  aside 
From  the  house  where  I  abide. 

Now,  at  last,  my  soul  hath  found  Him, 
Whom  alone  she  joys  to  see  ; 

Unto  me  His  love  hath  bound  Him, 
He  hath  given  Himself  for  me. 

Never  her  embrace  releasing, 

Pleads  my  soul  with  cries  unceasing, 

Will  not  let  her  Jesus  go, 

Till  the  blessing  He  bestow. 

Well  for  me  that  I  have  Jesus ! 

O  how  fast  to  Him  I  hold ! 
Well  that  He  my  heart  refreshes 

When  it  weary  is  and  cold. 
I  have  Jesus  !     Me  He  loveth, 
And  Himself  for  me  He  giveth  ; 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      177 

Ah  !  I  cannot  Christ  forsake 

Even  though  my  heart  should  break. 

Called  to  part  with  every  pleasure 
Which  on  earth  my  soul  holds  dear, 

Still  I  keep  my  truest  treasure  ; 
Jesus  whom  I  love  is  here. 

Jesus'  love  by  far  exceedeth 

All  for  which  my  weak  heart  pleadeth ; 

I  rely  upon  His  Word, — 

Never  will  I  leave  my  Lord. 

Ah  !  who  would  from  Jesus  wander  ? 

I  will  leave  Him  never  more  ; 
Others  hate  Him,  I  grow  fonder, 

Him  alone  would  I  adore. 
In  the  days  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Strength  to  bear  my  cross  I  borrow 
From  Thy  strength,  my  Light,  my  Way  ; 
I  will  never  from  Thee  stray. 

If  I  only  can  possess  Thee 

I  will  ask  for  naught  beside ; 
Look,  my  soul ;  one  glance  can  bless  thee 

From  Thy  Love,  the  Crucified. 


1 78  Christies  ad  Portam. 

In  Death's  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
When  all  helplessly  I  languish, 
And  Earth's  sunlight  grovveth  dim, 
I  will  fix  my  eyes  on  Him. 

Jesus  still  remains  my  Gladness, 
He  my  Life,  my  heart's  Delight, 

Jesus  banishes  all  sadness, 
Is  my  very  being's  Might ; 

Of  my  eyes  the  Joy  and  Brightness, 

Of  my  soul  the  Bliss  and  Lightness, 

Therefore  shall  He  ever  shine 

In  this  heart  and  face  of  mine. 

To  this  simple  expression  of  child-like  love  and 
trust  may  be  added  another  extract  from  the  Ger- 
man. Hymn  957,  in  Knapp's  Geistlicher  Lieder- 
schatz,  1865,  from  the  pen  of  Christoph  Karl  Lud- 
wig  V.Pfeil,  is  plain  and  homely  in  diction,  but 
very  heartful.  It  is  hoped  that  in  its  English  dress 
it  will  not  be  found  that  the  choicest  German  char- 
acteristics of  the  hymn  have  disappeared. 

Auf  !  mein  Herz,  dein  Heil  ist  nahe ; 
Thu'  die  Thiir  auf,  und  empfahe 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      1 79 

Den,  der  anklopft ;  wer  ihn  horet 
Und  den  Eingang  ihm  gewahret, 
Zu  dem  will  er  sich  in  Gnaden, 
Und  ihn  mit  zum  Nachtmahl  laden. 

Was  hast  du  ihm  vorzusetzen, 
Ihm  sein  Herze  zu  ergotzen? 
Womit  soil  er  seinen  Willen 
Als  dein  Gast  vergniiglich  stillen  ? 
Kannst  du  Jesum  Christum  sehen 
Ungesattigt  vor  dir  gehen  ? 

Fiihr'  ihn  in  des  Herzens  Kammer, 
Zeig'  ihm  deinen  ganzen  Jammer, 
Armuth,  Elend,  Noth  und  Blosse, 
Siinden — Meng'  und  ihre  Grosse  ? 
Sage  :  "  Von  des  Falles  wegen 
1st  dies  Alles  mein  Vermogen. 

Was  ich  ausser  Diesem  habe, 
1st,  O  Herr  nur  deine  Gabe ; 
Nimm  furlieb  mit  meinem  Sehnen, 
Glaubens — HofFnungs— Liebes — Thranen, 
Mit  dem  innigsten  Verlangen 
Deine  Gnade  zu  empfangen  ! 


1 80  Ch  ristus  ad  Porta  in . 

Nimm  forlieb  mit  deiner  Friichten  ! 
Lasz  mit  eigenen  Gerichten, 
Mir  geschenkt  durch  dein  Versiihnen, 
Dich  bevvirthen  und  bedienen  ! 
Hatt'  ich  mehr  von  dir  genommen, 
Konntest  du  jetzt  mehr  bekommen. 

Ober  eben,  Herr  deszwegen, 
Weil  so  diirftig  mein  Vermogen, 
Gonne  mir  an  deinem  Tische, 
Dasz  sich  meine  Kraft  erfrische, 
Dasz  mein  Herz  schon  hier  auf  Erden 
Moge  ganz  dein  Schatzhaus  werden. 

Lasz  mit  dir  mich  Nachtmahl  halten, 
Dasz  die  Triebe  nicht  erkalten, 
Die  aus  dir  in  mir  noch  leben : 
Dein  Leib,  der  fur  mich  gegeben, 
Und  dein  Blut,  fiir  mich  vergossen, 
Mache  mich  zum  Reichs  genossen." 


Rise  my  heart,  the  Lord  immortal 
Standeth  knocking  at  thy  portal : 


Songs  of  other  Tongites,  etc.      181 

Haste  to  open  and  receive  Him  ! 
Welcome  entrance  if  thou  give  Him, 
Heavenly  food  will  He  provide  thee, 
And  at  supper  sit  beside  thee. 

What  hast  thou  to  set  before  Him  ? 
What  libation  wilt  thou  pour  Him  ? 
What  is  there  to  thee  belonging 
That  can  satisfy  His  longing  ? 
Canst  thou  see  the  Saviour  turning 
From  thy  door  with  hopeless  yearning  ? 

To  thine  inner  chamber  take  Him  ; 
There  a  full  confession  make  Him. 
Show  thy  woe,  thy  want,  thy  blindness, 
Countless  sins  against  His  kindness, 
Say,  "  Through  Adam's  sad  transgression 
These,  alone,  are  my  possession. 

All  I  have  beside,  dear  Saviour, 
Holding  only  through  Thy  favour, 
Take  again  ;  Thy  soul  contenting 
With  my  sighing  and  repenting, 
Tears  of  faith,  and  strong  endeavor 
For  Thy  grace,  that  faileth  never. 
16 


1 8 2  Christies  ad  Porta m. 

Take  Thy  fruit,  content  in  spirit,  . 
And,  through  Thine  atonement's  merit, 
Of  my  heart's  free  choice,  O  let  me 
Be  Thy  host,  a  table  set  Thee. 
Had  I  stored  what  Thou  didst  proffer, 
Now,  to  Thee,  I  more  could  offer. 

Yet,  because  of  this  my  fortune, 
Poor  and  scanty,  set  a  portion 
For  me  at  Thy  board  of  blessing, 
Thus  my  feeble  strength  increasing, 
That  my  heart,  though  small  of  measure, 
May  be  store-house  for  Thy  treasure. 

Supping  thus  with  me,  Thy  servant, 
Keep  the  aspirations  fervent, 
Kindled  by  Thy  love  within  me. 
May  Thy  blood,  that  flowed  to  win  me, 
And  Thy  body,  bleeding,  broken, 
Make  me  heir  to  joys  unspoken." 

Also  from  Schmolke's  more  than  eleven  hun- 
dred hymns  and  sacred  poems,  we  select  a  few- 
verses,  verses  that  have  a  ring  to  them  which  our 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      183 

translation  very  faintly  echoes.  This  hymn  was 
probably  written  toward  the  first  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 


Hosianna,  David's  Sohn 
Kommt  in  Zion  eingezogen  : 

Auf,  bereitet  ihm  den  Thron, 
Sitzt  ihm  tausend  Ehrenbogen  : 

Streuet  Palmen,  machet  Bahn, 

Dasz  Er  Einzug  halten  kann. 

Hosianna,  sey  gegaiiszt, 

Komm  wir  gehen  dir  entgegen  ; 
Unser  Herz  ist  schon  geriist't, 

Will  sich  dir  zu  Fiissen  legen  ; 
Zeuch  zu  unsern  Thoren  ein, 
Du  sollst  uns  willkommen  sein. 

Hosianna  Friedefiirst, 

Ehrenkonig,  Held  im  Streite  ! 
Alles,  was  du  schaffen  wirst, 

Das  ist  unsre  Siegesbeute  : 
Deine  Rechte  bleibt  erhoht, 
Und  dein  Reich  allein  besteht. 


184  Christus  ad  Portam, 

Hosianna  lieber  Gast, 

Wir  sind  deine  Reichsgenossen, 
Die  du  dir  erwahlet  hast ; 

Ach,  so  lasz  uns  unverdrossen 
Deinem  Scepter  dienstbar  sein, 
Herrsche  du  in  uns  allein. 

Hosianna,  Komme  bald, 

Lasz  uns  deine  Sauftmuth  klissen 
Wollte  gleich  die  Knechtsgestalt, 

Deine  Majestat  verschliessen ; 
O  so  kennet  Zion  schon 
Gottes  und  auch  David's  Sohn. 


Hosianna  nah  und  fern  ! 

Eile  bei  uns  einzugehen  ; 
Du  gesegneter  des  Herrn, 

Warum  willst  du  draussen  stehen? 
Hosianna,  bist  du  da  ? 
Ja,  du  kommst,  Halleluja  ! 

Shout  hosanna  !  David's  Son, 
Now,  into  His  Zion  marches ! 


Songs  of  other  Tongzies,  etc.      185 

Up,  prepare  for  Him  the  throne, 

Wreath  for  Him  triumphal  arches  ! 
Strew  Him  palms,  a  pathway  make, 
That  His  entrance  He  may  take  ! 

Shout  hosanna  !     Thee  we  greet, 
Run  to  meet  Thee,.  O  most  Holy, 

And,  made  ready  at  Thy  feet, 
See,  our  hearts  are  lying  lowly  ; 

Enter  Thou  our  door  within, 

Joyous  welcome  Thou  shalt  win. 

Shout  hosanna  !     Prince  of  peace  ! 

Battle  hero  !  King  of  glory  ! 
Spoils  of  victory  increase, 

Won  for  us,  through  conflicts  gory ; 
Thine  the  right  we  would  extol, 
Thine  the  kingdom  over  all. 

Shout  hosanna  !  Dearest  Guest, 
We  inherit  with  Thee,  reigning. 

Thou  hast  loved  us,  loved  us  best ; 
Then,  ah  !  let  us,  uncomplaining, 

Service  to  Thy  sceptre  pay  ; 

Rule  Thou  in  our  hearts  for  aye. 
16* 


1 86  Christus  ad  Portam. 

Shout  hosanna  !  Quickly  come  ; 

Let  us  now  adorn  Thy  meekness. 
Can  Thy  Majesty  find  room 

In  a  servant's  form  of  weakness  ? 
Thus  to  Zion  art  Thou  known, 
God's,  but  also  David's,  Son. 


Loud  hosannas  let  us  shout ! 

Enter  in  us,  blessed  Master. 
Wherefore  dost  Thou  stand  without? 

Sound  hosannas,  louder,  faster  ! 
Wilt  Thou  make  in  us  Thy  home  ? 
Hallelujah  !  Thou  art  come. 


From  the  Gesangbuch  zum  Geb7'auch  Evangel- 
ischen  Briider-gemeinen,  Bar  by,  1783,  we  take  yet 
another  unpretending,  simple  welcome  to  the 
heart's  Guest.  The  authorship  is  unknown  to 
us.     Its  translation  is  given  below  : 

Ach  komm,  du  siisser  Herzensgast 
Du  Labsal  meiner  Seele  ! 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc,      187 

Bey  der  du  deine  Wohnung  hast 
In  dieser  Jammerhohle. 

Reut  aus,  du  theures  Glaubenspfand  ! 

Was  nicht  dein  eigen  heisset ; 
Ach  !  beut  dem  Willen  doch  die  Hand, 

Der  sich  der  Welt  entreisset. 

Es  schaut  dein  holder  Gnadenblick 

Die  Siindergrust  im  Herzen, 
Und  zieht  sich  dennoch  nicht  zurlick 

Er  sieht  auf  Christi  Schmerzen. 

Ich  offne  dir  Herz,  Seel  und  Sinn, 

Mit  brunstigem  Verlangen, 
Dich  O  mein  Jesu !  mein  Gewinn, 

Recht  freudig  zu  umfangen. 

Komm,  komm  und  halt  dein  Abendmahl 
Mit  deinem  schwachem  Kind.e  ; 

Dasz  deiner  siissen  Liebe  Strahl 
Mich  inniglich  entziinde. 

O  da  verbindt  sich  Seel  und  Gott 
In  recht  vertrauter  Liebe 


t  88  Christ  us  ad  Portam. 

Was  ihm  zuwider  musz  in  Tod 
Vor  diesem  Himmelstriebe. 

Da  liegt  des  Teufels  macht  zerstreut, 

Die  Welt  ist  iiberwunden ; 
Da  fiihrt  des  Geistes  Freudigkeit 

Die  Siindenlust  gebunden. 

Wie  leicht  ist  dann  des  Heilands  Joch, 

Wie  sanft  ist  seine  Blirde  ! 
Ach  !  spricht  die  Seele  ;  dasz  ich  doch 

Ihm  ganz  zur  Freude  wiirde ! 

Du  Geist  der  Gnade  !  steh  mir  bey, 
Und  lasz  mich  ja  nicht  fallen  ! 

Mach  meinen  ganz  gewisz  und  frey, 
Und  leite  mich  in  alien. 

Ach  nim  mein  Herz,  dir  ganzlich  ein, 
Und  stark  es  aus  der  Hohe ! 

Dann  werd  ich  vblieg  selig  seyn, 
Wenn  ich  einst  Jesum  sehe. 

O  come,  sweet  Inmate  of  my  breast, 
My  soul's  refreshing  gladness, 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      189 

Thou  who  dost  deign  to  take  Thy  rest 
Even  in  this  cave  of  sadness. 

From  all  that  is  not  truly  Thine, 
Dear  Pledge  of  faith,  deliver  ; 

And  welcome  Thou  this  will  of  mine, 
Which  from  the  world  would  sever. 

Thy  kindly  glance,  the  sinner's  plea 

For  welcome  to  Thy  favor ; 
Who,  if  he  turn  not  back,  may  see 

The  Passion  of  his  Saviour. 

My  heart  and  soul  and  mind  I  ope, 
With  longings  there  to  hold  Thee : 

O  Jesus,  Thou  my  Prize,  my  Hope, 
Right  jo}^ous  I  enfold  Thee. 

Come,  come,  and  hold  Thy  evening  meal 
With  me,  Thy  weakest  creature ; 

Thy  sweet  love's  rays,  O  let  me  feel, 
Enkindling  all  my  nature. 

Ah !  thus  the  soul  to  God  is  chained, 
To  God  its  love  is  given. 


190  Ch  ristus  ad  Port  an  1. 

Death  to  whatever  would  withstand 
Its  upward  course  to  heaven  ! 

The  power  of  Satan  scattered  lies  ; 

Vanquished  the  world,  so  winning  ; 
And  now  the  Spirit's  gladsomeness 

Leads  bound  all  wish  for  sinning. 

The  Saviour's  yoke  now  groweth  light, 
His  burden  light  of  bearing  ; 

Ah  !  says  the  soul,  if  that  I  might 
Please  Jesus  by  the  wearing. 

Spirit  of  Grace,  remain  with  me, 

And  let  me  stumble  never ; 
Make  my  step  light,  and  firm,  and  free, 

And  guide  me  on  forever. 

Oh  !  bind  my  heart  alone  to  Thee, 
And  in  Thy  strength  enfold  me  ; 

Then  will  my  bliss  perfected  be, 

When  once  mine  eyes  behold  Thee. 


We  cannot  close  this  chapter  without  adding  a 


Songs  of  other  Tongues,  etc.      191 

few  lines  from  the  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine, 
taken  from  Prof.  Shedd's  edition.  The  first  ex- 
tract is  from  II.  2,  the  second,  V.  6.  They  need 
no  comment. 

"  And  how  will  I  call  upon  my  God,  my  God 
and  Lord,  since  when  I  call  for  Him  I  shall  be 
calling  Him  into  myself?  and  what  room  is 
there  within  me  whither  my  God  can  come  into 
me  ?  Whither  can  God  come  into  me,  God  who 
made  heaven  and  earth  ?  Is  there,  indeed,  O  Lord 
my  God,  aught  in  me  that  can  contain  Thee  ?  Do 
then  heaven  and  earth,  which  Thou  hast  made, 
and  wherein  Thou  hast  made  me,  contain  Thee  ? 
Or,  because  nothing  which  exists  could  exist 
without  Thee,  doth,  therefore,  whatever  exists, 
contain  Thee  ?  Since  then,  I,  too,  exist,  why  do 
I  seek  that  Thou  shouldest  enter  into  me,  who 
were  not,  wert  Thou  not  in  me  ? 

"  The  house  of  my  soul  is  too  strait  for  Thee  to 
come  into,  but  let  it,  O  Lord,  be  enlarged,  that 
Thou  mayst  enter  in.  It  is  ruinous ;  repair 
Thou  it.  It  has  that  within,  which  must  offend 
thine  eyes;  I  confess  and  know  it.  But  who 
shall  cleanse  it  ?  or  to  whom  should  I  cry  out 
save  Thee  ?" 


CHAPTER   III. 


ASPIRATIONS. 

Come,  dearest  Lord,  descend  and  dwell 

By  faith  and  love  in  every  breast ; 
Then  shall  we  know,  and  taste,  and  feel, 

The  joys  that  cannot  be  expressed. 

Come,  fill  our  hearts  with  inward  strength  ; 

Make  our  enlarged  souls  possess, 
And  learn  the  height  and  breadth  and  length 

Of  Thine  immeasurable  grace. — Watts. 

IT   would  be  well-nigh  impossible  to  open   a 
collection    of      hymns    in    use    in    Christian 
churches  without  finding  there,    in  rhythmic 
form,  many  prayers  and  longings  of  the  soul   for 
Christ's  presence  in  the  heart.     The  fervid  Wes- 
ley sings : 

Love  Divine,  all  loves  excelling  ! 

Joy  of  heaven,  to  earth  come  down  ; 
Fix  in  us  Thy  humble  dwelling, 

All  Thy  faithful  mercies  crown  : 
(192) 


i 


A  spirations.  1 9  5 

Here,  could  I  say, 
(And  point  the  spot  whereon  I  stood,) 
Here  I  enjoyed  a  visit  half  the  day 

From  my  descending  God  ; 
I  was  regaled  with  heavenly  fare, 

With  fruit  and  manna  from  above, 
Divinely  sweet  the  blessings  were 
While  mine  Emmanuel  was  there, 
And  o'er  my  head 
The  Conqueror  spread 
The  banner  of  His  love. 


And  the  loving,  hopeless,  broken-hearted  Cow- 
per  complains  : 

Thy  mansion  is  the  Christian's  heart, 
O  Lord,  Thy  dwelling  place  secure  ! 

Bid  the  unruly  throng  depart 
And  leave  the  consecrated  door. 

Devoted  as  it  is  to  Thee, 

A  thievish  swarm  frequents  the  place ; 
They  steal  away  my  joys  from  me, 

And  rob  my  Saviour  of  His  praise. 


196  Christus  ad  Portam. 

There,  too,  a  sharp  designing  trade 
Sin,  Satan  and  the  world  maintain, 

Nor  cease  to  press  me  and  persuade 
To  part  with  ease  and  purchase  pain. 

I  know  them  and  I  hate  their  din, 
Am  weary  of  the  bustling  crowd  ; 

But  while  their  voice  is  heard  within, 
I  cannot  serve  Thee  as  I  would. 

O  for  the  joy  Thy  presence  gives  ! 

What  peace  shall  reign   when  Thou  art 
here ! 
Thy  presence  makes  this  den  of  thieves 

A  calm  delightful  house  of  prayer. 

And  if  Thou  make  the  temple  shine, 

Yet  self-abased  will  I  adore  ; 
The  gold  and  silver  are  not  mine, 

I  give  Thee  what  was  Thine  before. 


And  nearly  every  hymn-lover  can  recall,  from 
anonymous  sources,  lines  similar  in  spirit  to  the 


A  spiv  at  ions.  193 

Jesus  !  Thou  art  all  compassion — 
Pure,  unbounded  love  Thou  art ; 

Visit  us  with  Thy  salvation, 
Enter  every  trembling  heart. 


Come,  Almighty  to  deliver, 

Let  us  all  Thy  life  receive ; 
Suddenly  return  and  never, 

Never  more  Thy  temples  leave  ! 
Thee  we  would  be  always  blessing, 

Serve  Thee  as  Thy  host  above, 
Pray  and  praise  Thee  without  ceasing, 

Glory  in  Thy  perfect  love. 

While  the  sainted  Doddridge  pleads: 

Enter  our  hearts,  Redeemer  blest  ! 
Enter,  Thou  ever  honoured  Guest, 
Not  for  one  transient  hour  alone, 
But  there  to  fix  Thy  lasting  throne. 


Own  this  mean  dwelling  as  Thy  home, 
And,  when  our  life's  last  hour  is  come, 
17 


1 94  Christus  ad  Portarn. 

Let  us  but  die  as  in  Thy  sight, 
And  death  shall  vanish  in  delight. 


All  of  our  best  known  hymnists  have  uttered, 
in  different  keys,  the  self-same  cry.  Watts,  in  his 
Lyric  Poems,  with  a  few  touches  of  great  beauty 
treats  of  the  indwelling  Christ.  The  whole  poem 
is  not  to  our  purpose,  but  such  a  stanza  as  the 
following,  by  dwelling  upon  what  has  been,  feeling- 
ly implies  the  longings  of  the  soul  for  its  absent 
Lord. 

Happy  the   times ;  but   oh !  the  times  are 
gone, 
When  wondrous  power  and  radiant  grace, 
Round  the  tall  arches  of  the  temple  shone, 
And  mingled  their  victorious  rays. 
Sin  with  all  its  ghastly  train 
Fled  to  the  deeps  of  death  again, 
And  smiling  triumph  sat  on  every  face. 
Our  spirits,  raptured  with  the  sight, 
Were  all  devotion,  all  delight, 
And  loud  hosannas  sounded  the  Redeemer's 
praise. 


yW/^v 


Wnx  (r^w-  , 


A  spiral  tons.  199 

for  all  the  brotherhood  who  were  his  beloved  chil- 
dren, "  whose  love,"  he  assured  them,  in  dying, 
"  urged  him  to  remain  below,"  he  thus  lived,  and 
preached,  and  sang,  and  died  ;  "  the  best  monk," 
says  Dr.  Martin  Luther,  "  that  ever  lived."  We 
cannot  attempt  to  give  the  many  English  render- 
ings of  this  choice  hymn  of  praise.  We  quote 
but  fifteen  of  the  fifty  original  Latin  quatrains. 
The  selection,  we  believe,  is  Trench's.  Our  first 
translation,  by  E.  Caswell,  is  taken  from  the  Lyra 
Catholica,  it  being  a  translation  of  the  abridged 
form  as  given,  in  three  parts,  in  the  Roman  Bre- 
viary. In  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern,  Mr.  Cas- 
well's verses  show  some  variations  from  this  ver- 
sion, being  there  better  adapted  for  music. 

Jesu  !  dulcis  memoria  ! 
Dans  vera  cordi  gandia, 
Sed  super  mel  et  omnia 
Ejus  dulcis  praesentia. 

Nil  canitur  suavius, 
Nil  auditur  jucundius, 
Nil  cogitatur  dulcius 
Quam  Jesus  Dei  Filius. 


/V*v 


200  Christus  ad  Port  am. 

Jesus,  spes  poenitentibus, 
Quam  pius  es  petentibus ! 
Quam  bonus  te  quaerentibus 
Sed  quid  invenientibus  ? 

Nee  lingua  valet  dicere, 
Nee  litera  exprimere, 
Expertus  potest  credere 
Quid  sit  Jesum  diligere. 

Jesu,  Rex  admirabilis, 
Et  Triumphator  nobilis, 
Dulcedo  ineffabilis, 
Toties  desiderabilis. 

Mane  nobiscum,  Domine, 
Et  nos  illustra  Lumine  ; 
Pulsa  mentis  caligine, 
Mundum  replens  Dulcedine. 

Quando  cor  nostrum  visitas 
Tunc  lucet  ei  Veritas, 
Mundi  silescit  vanitas 
Et  intus  fervet  charitas. 


A  spirations.  197 

following,   though    not    always  possessing    their 
grace  of  sweetness. 


Come,  my  Redeemer  come, 
And  deign  to  dwell  with  me ; 

Come,  and  Thy  right  assume, 
And  bid  Thy  rivals  flee  : 

Come,  my  Redeemer,  quickly  come, 

And  make  my  heart  Thy  lasting  home. 

Exert  Thy  mighty  power 

And  banish  all  my  sin ; 
In  this  auspicious  hour 

Bring  all  Thy  graces  in  : 
Come,  my  Redeemer,  quickly  come, 
And  make  my  heart  Thy  lasting  home. 

Rule  Thou  in  every  thought 

And  passion  of  my  soul, 
Till  all  my  powers  are  brought 

Beneath  Thy  full  control : 
Come,  my  Redeemer,  quickly  come, 

And  make  my  heart  Thy  lasting  home. 

17* 


198  Christies  ad  Por tarn. 

Then  shall  my  days  be  thine, 

And  all  my  heart  be  love, 
And  joy  and  peace  be  mine, 

Such  as  are  known  above : 
Come,  my  Redeemer,  quickly  come, 

And  make  my  heart  Thy  lasting  home. 


The  time  would  fail  us  were  we  to  tell  of  the 
many  who  have*  thus  prayed  and  sung.  The  tide 
of  such  prayer  and  such  singing  has  rolled  and 
swelled  along  the  ages  till  the  sound  is  like  that  of 
a  mighty  multitude  whom  no  man  can  number. 

Occasionally  we  catch  sweet  strains  from  single 
voices,  as  from  the  "  Doctor  mellifluus,"  who 
sang,  says  Dr.  S chaff,  in  his  Christ  i?i  Song,  "  the 
sweetest  and  most  evangelical  hymn  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages" — St.  Bernard,  abbot  of  Clairvaux,  in 
Champagne.  Born  of  a  knightly  family  in  Bur- 
gundy, reared  gently  by  a  noble  mother,  making, 
as  many  a  modern  saint  has  done,  the  groves  his 
temples  for  God's  praise,  and  "  a  woodland  bower, 
his  oratory,"  binding  his  five  brothers  to  him 
under  one  monastic  roof,  and  making  his  monas- 
tery a  dearly  loved  home,  not  for  them  alone,  but 


Aspirations.  203 

A  sweeter  sound  than  Thy  blest  name, 
O  Saviour  of  mankind  ! 

O  Hope  of  every  contrite  heart ! 

O  Joy  of  all  the  meek ! 
To  those  who  fall,  how  kind  Thou  art ! 

How  good  to  those  who  seek  ! 

But  what  to  those  who  find  ?     Ah  !  this 
Nor  tongue  nor  pen  can  show  ; 

The  love  of  Jesus,  what  it  is, 
None  but  His  loved  ones  know. 

Jesu  !  our  only  joy  be  Thou, 

As  Thou  our  prize  shalt  be  ; 
Jesu  !  be  Thou  our  glory  now, 

And  through  eternity. 


II. 


O  Jesu  !  King  most  wonderful ! 

Thou  Conqueror  renowned ! 
Thou  Sweetness  most  ineffable, 

In  whom  all  joys  are  found  ! 


204  Christies  ad  Po7rtam. 

When  once  Thou  visitest  the  heart, 
*Then  truth  begins  to  shine ; 
Then  earthly  vanities  depart ; 
Then  kindles  love  divine. 

O  Jesu  !  Light  of  all  below  ! 

Thou  Fount  of  life  and  fire  ! 
Surpassing  all  the  joys  we  know, 

All  that  we  can  desire : 

May  every  heart  confess  Thy  name, 

And  ever  Thee  adore ; 
And  seeking  Thee,  itself  inflame 

To  seek  Thee  more  and  more. 

Thee  may  our  tongues  forever  bless ; 

Thee  may  we  love  alone ; 
And  ever  in  our  lives  express 

The  image  of  Thine  own. 


III. 

O  Jesu  !  Thou  the  beauty  art 
Of  angel  worlds  above  ; 


Aspirations.  201 

Jesu,  Dulcedo  cordium  ! 
Fons  vivus,  Lumen  meritium, 
Excedens  omne  gaudium, 
Et  omme  desiderium ! 

Jesum  omnes  agnoscite, 
Amorem  ejus  poscite, 
Jesum  ardenter  quaerite, 
Quaerendo  inardescite. 

(Te  nostra,  Jesu,  vox  sonet 
Nostri  Te  mores  exprimant, 
Te  corda  nostra  diligant 
Et  nunc  et  in  perpetuum.) 

Jesu  Decus  Angelicum, 
In  aure  dulce  canticum, 
In  ore  mel  mirificum 
In  corde  nectar  coelicum. 

Qui  Te  gustant  esuriunt, 
Qui  bibunt  adhuc  sitiunt ; 
Desiderare  nesciunt 
Nisi  Jesum  Quern  diligunt. 


202  CJiristus  ad  Portam. 

O  Jesu,  mi  dulcissime 
Spes  et  spirantis  animae, 
Te  quaerunt  piae  lacrymae, 
Te  clamor  mentis  intimae. 

Mane  nobiscum  Domine 
Et  nos  illustra  Lumine, 
Pulsa  mentes  caligine, 
Mundum  replens  dulcedine. 

Jesus  !     Flos  Matris  Virginis, 
Amor  nostrae  dulcedinis, 
Tibi  laus,  honor  Numinis, 
Regnum  beatitudinis. 


Jesu  !  the  very  thought  of  Thee 
With  sweetness  fills  my  breast ; 

But  sweeter  far  Thy  face  to  see 
And  in  Thy  presence  rest. 

Nor  voice  can  sing,  nor  heart  can  frame, 
Nor  can  the  memory  find 


Aspirations.  207 

He  only  who  has  proved  it  knows 
What  bliss  from  love  of  Jesus  flows. 

O  Jesu,  King  of  wondrous  might ! 
O  Victor,  glorious  from  the  fight ! 
Sweetness  that  may  not  be  expressed, 
And  altogether  loveliest ! 

Abide  with  us,  O  Lord,  to-day, 
Fulfill  us  with  Thy  grace,  we  pray ; 
And  with  Thine  own  true  sweetness  feed 
Our  souls,  from  sin  and  darkness  freed. 


And  so  we  might  continue,  multiplying  transla- 
tions of  this  precious  song,  but  we  turn  now  to  a 
later  singer,  Johann  Schefner,  who  wrote  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  is  better  known  under  his 
adopted  name,  Angelus  Silesius.  Born  in  the 
Lutheran  Church,  and  then,  through  the  dogma- 
tism of  the  surrounding  Lutheran  clergy  driven  to 
Roman  Catholicism,  his  hymns  are  neither  Ro- 
man nor  Lutheran,  but  purely  Christian,  and  they 
have  spoken  comfort  to  Christians  of  every  name. 


208  Christus  ad  Portam. 

The  translation  here  given  is  taken  from  the 
Sacrifice  of  Praise,  and  is  the  work  of  R.  P. 
Dunn.  The  hymn  breathes  "  the  most  ardent 
longing  for  entire  self-surrender"  to  Christ,  which 
is,  writes  Miss  Winkworth,  a  characteristic  of  most 
of  his  devotional  poems. 


JESU,  JESU,  KOMM'  ZU  MIR. 

Jesu,  Jesu,  komm'  zu  mir ! 
O  wie  sehn'  ich  mich  nach  dir! 
Komm',  du  bester  Seelenfreund  ! 
Wann  werd'  ich  mit  dir  vereint  ? 

Tausendmal  begehr'  ich  dein  ; 
Ohne  dich  ist  Alles  Pein ; 
Tausendmal  ruf  ich  zu  dir: 
Jesu,  Jesu,  komm'  zu  mir ! 

Keine  Lust  ist  in  der  Welt, 
Die  mein  Herz  zufrieden  stellt. 
Jesu,  deine  Lieb'  allein 
Kann  mein  armes  Herz  erfreu'n! 


Aspirations.  205 

Thy  name  is  music  to  the  heart, 
Enchanting  it  with  love. 


Celestial  sweetness  unalloyed  ! 

Who  eat  Thee  hunger  still ; 
Who  drink  of  Thee  still  feel  a  void 

Which  nought  but  Thou  can  fill. 

O  my  sweet  Jesu  !  hear  the  sighs 

Which  unto  Thee  I  send ; 
To  Thee  my  inmost  spirit  cries, 

My  being's  hope  and  end  ! 

Stay  with  us,  Lord,  and  with  Thy  light, 

Illume  the  soul's  abyss  ; 
Scatter  the  darkness  of  our  night, 

And  fill  the  world  with  bliss. 

O  Jesu  !  spotless  virgin-flower  ! 

Our  love  and  joy  !  to  Thee 
Be  praise,  beatitude,  and  power, 

Through  all  eternity. 


In  Hymnal  Noted,  is  an  English  version  of  the 
18 


206  Christus  ad  Portam. 

first  portion  of  this  hymn,  from  the  pen  of  one  of 
the  happiest  of  translators,  the  late  Dr.  Neale, 
and  which  is  copied  below  : 


UNTO   YOU   WHICH   BELIEVE   HE   IS 
PRECIOUS. 

Jesu  !  the  very  thought  is  sweet ! 
In  that  dear  name  all  heart  joys  meet : 
But  oh  !  than  honey,  sweeter  far, 
The  glimpses  of  His  presence  are. 

No  word  is  sung  more  sweet  than  this; 
No  sound  is  heard  more  full  of  bliss ; 
No  thought  brings  sweeter  comfort  nigh 
Than  Jesus,  Son  of  God,  Most  High. 

Jesu,  the  hope  of  souls  forlorn, 
How  good  to  them  for  sin  that  mourn  ! 
To  them  that  seek  Thee,  oh,  how  kind ! 
But  what  art  Thou  to  them  that  find  ? 

No  tongue  of  mortal  can  express, 
No  tongue  can  write  the  blessedness ; 


Aspirations.  209 

Herr,  du  best  des  Himmels  Sicht ! 
Warest  du  im  Himmel  nicht, 
H'att'  er  fur  mich  keinen  Schein, 
Mocht  ich  nicht  darinnen  seyn. 

Nimm  nur  Alles  von  mir  hin, 
Was  dir  gegen  deinen  Sinn  ; 
Herrsche  ganz  allein  in  mir  ! 
Mach'  mich  ganz  zur  Freude  dir  ! 

Keinem  Andern  sag'  ich  zu,   ■ 
Dasz  ich  ihm  mein  Herz  aufthu'  ; 
Dich  alleine  lasz  ich  ein, 
Dich  allefne  neun'  ich  mein. 

Du  allein,,  o  Gottes  Sohn, 

Bfct  mein  Schild  und  grosser  Lohn  ; 

Dir,  o  mein  Versohner  du, 

Dir  allein  gehor  ich  zu  ! 

O  so  komm  denn  in  mein  Herz, 
Heile  mich  von  Siind'  und  Schmerz  ; 
Sieh',  ich  rufe  fiir  und  fur  ; 
Jesu,  Jesu,  komm  zu  mir ! 
18* 


210  Christies  ad  Portarn. 

Nun  ich  warte,  mit  geduld, 
Bitte  nur  um  diese  Huld, 
Dasz  du  auch  in  Todespein 
Wollst  mein  Licht  und  Leben  seyn. 


Jesus,  Jesus,  visit  me  ! 
How  my  soul  longs  after  Thee  ! 
When,  my  best,  my  dearest  friend, 
Shall  our  separation  end  ? 

Lord,  my  longings  never  cease, 
Without  Thee  I  find  no  peace, 
'Tis  my  constant  cry  to  Thee, 
Jesus,  Jesus,  visit  me. 

Mean  the  joys  of  earth  appear, 
All  below  is  dark  and  drear, 
Naught  but  Thy  beloved  voice 
Can  my  wretched  heart  rejoice. 

Thou,  alone,  my  gracious  Lord, 
Art  my  shield  and  great  reward  ; 
Art  my  hope,  my  Saviour  Thou, 
To  Thy  Sovereign  will  I  bow. 


Aspirations.  211 

Come,  inhabit  Thou  my  heart, 
Purge  its  sin  and  heal  its  smart ; 
See,  I  ever  cry  to  Thee, 
Jesus,  Jesus,  visit  me. 

Patiently  I  wait  Thy  day, 
For  this  gift  alone  I  pray, 
That  when  death  shall  visit  me, 
Thou  my  Light  and  Life  shall  be. 


From  a  hymn  of  the  noble  Count  Zinzendorf, 
who  wrote  yet  later,  we  quote  a  stanza  or  two, 
breathing  the  same  self-consecration. 


Da  ist  mein  Herz,  du  Herz  der  Seele  ! 

Erwahl'  es  dir  zum  Konigssaal ! 
Er  ist  zwar  eine  enge  Hohle, 

Und  deiner  Full'  ist  Keine  Zahl ! 
Doch  deine  Liebe,  die  dich  nieder 

In  mein  verlor'nes  Wesen  zog 

Und  deine  Gottheit  uberwog, 
Die  ziehe  dich  auch  jetzo  wieder. 


* 

2 1 2  Christus  ad  Portam. 


Hier  ist  der  Ort,  hier  sollst  du  wohnen  ; 

Hier  soil  die  hochste  Majestat 
Als  auf  dem  Stuhl  der  ehre  thronen  ; 

Dein  Friedens  grusz  sey  mein  Gebet, 
Dein  Scepter  sey  mein  ganzer  Wille, 

Dein  Reich  sey  Leib  und  Seel'  und  Geist, 

Darin  sich  deine  Macht  erwei-st, 
Dein  Ruh'  bett  meine  Seelenstille  ! 


Which  translated  might  read  something  as  fol- 
lows : 

Heart  of  my  soul,  my  heart  I  proffer, 

Thy  royal  palace  let  it  be  ; 
A  dismal,  narrow  cave  I  offer 

To  hold  Thy  boundless  majesty. 
But  yet  the  love,  all  condescending, 

Unto  my  utter  weakness  shown, 

Which  laid  Thy  mighty  Godhead  down, 
Will  make  Thy  work  of  grace  unending. 

This  be  Thy  place  of  habitation, 
The  highest  majesty  shall  here 


Aspirations.  213 

As  on  a  throne,  assume  its  station  ; 
Thy  peaceful  greeting  be  my  prayer ; 

As  scepter  take  my  will,  made  holy  ; 
Body  and  soul,  Thy  kingdom  blest, 
Wherein  Thy  power  is  manifest ; 

My  soul's  hush,  be  thy  couch  full  lowly.     • 


John  Byrom,  too,  a  gentleman  of  Manchester, 
England,  told  in  the  last  century,  in  words  which 
the  church  delights  to  make  her  own,  of  fervent 
longings  for  his  Lord.  This  hymn  is  found  in 
nearly  every  modern  collection  for  Sabbath  ser- 
vice in  the  Lord's  house. 


LONGING   FOR   CHRIST. 

My  spirit  longs  for  Thee 
Within  my  troubled  breast, 

Although  I  be  unworthy 
Of  so  Divine  a  Guest. 

Of  so  Divine  a  Guest 
Unworthy  though  I  be, 


2 1 4  Christies  ad  Portam. 

Yet  has  my  heart  no  rest 
Unless  it  come  from  Thee. 

Unless  it  come  from  thee, 
In  vain  I  look  around  ; 

In  all  that  I  can  see 
No  rest  is  to  be  found. 

No  rest  is  to  be  found 
But  in  Thy  blessed  love  ; 

O  let  my  wish  be  crowned, 
And  send  it  from  above. 

Coming  down  to  our  times,  we  find  a  "  Supplica- 
tion "  of  Jean  Ingelow's,  in  the  little  volume  of 
Hymns  for  all  C/iristians,  compiled  by  Charles  F. 
Deems  and  that  earnest  hymn  lover,  Phoebe 
Cary.  The  prayer  is  one  in  spirit  with"  those  of 
earlier  times  which  we  have  quoted. 

O  God,  O  Kinsman,  loved,  but  not  enough  ; 

O  man,  with  eyes  majestic  after  death, 
Whose  feet  have  toiled  along  our  pathways 
rough, 

Whose  lips,  drawn  human  breath  ! 


Aspirations.  215 

By   that   one   likeness   which  is   ours   and 
Thine  ; 
By  that  one  nature  which  doth  hold  us 
kin ; 
By  that  high  heaven   where  sinless  Thou 
dost  shine, 
To  draw  us  sinners  in  ; 

By  Thy  last  silence  in  the  judgment-hall ; 

By  long  foreknowledge  of  the  deadly  tree ; 
By  darkness,  by  the  wormwood  and   the 

gall, 
I  pray  Thee,  visit  me. 

Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and  cast- 
away, 
Die  ere  the  Guest  adored  she  entertain — 
Lest  eyes  which  never  saw  Thine  earthly 
day 
Should  miss  Thy  heavenly  reign. 

And  deign,  O  watcher,  with  the  sleepless 
brow, 
Pathetic  in  its  yearning, — deign  reply : 


2 1 6  Christ  us  ad  Portam. 

Is  there,  oh !   is  there  aught  that  such   as 
Thou — 
Wouldst  take  from  such  as  I  ? 


And  two  of  the  sweetest  hymnists  of  modern 
times,  Bonar  and  Lyte,  have  each  uttered  their 
prayer — echoed  back  from  the  evening  when  He 
drew  near  Emmaus — "Abide  with  me."  That  of 
Lyte  we  all  remember,  remembering,  too,  it  was 
his  Swan  Song,  so  we  keep  it  for  our  last. 
Bonar's,  taken  from  the  2d  series  of  his  Hymns  of 
Faith  and  Hope,  may  be  less  familiar. 

ABIDE   WITH   US. 
Luke  xxiv.  29. 

'  TlS  evening  now  ! 
O  Saviour  wilt  not  Thou 
Enter  my  home  and  heart, 
Nor  ever  hence  depart, 
Even  when  the  morning  breaks, 
And  e^rth  again  awakes. 
Thou  wilt  abide  with  me, 
And  I  with  Thee. 


A  spirations.  21 J 

The  world  is  old  ! 

Its  air  grows  dull  and  cold  ; 

Upon  its  aged  face 

The  wrinkles  come  apace ; 

Its  western  sky  is  wan, 

Its  youth  and  joy  are  gone. 

O  Master,  be  our  light, 

When  o'er  us  falls  the  night. 

Evil  is  round  ! 
Iniquities  abound ; 
Our  cottage*  will  be  lone 
When  the  great  Sun  is  gone ; 
O  Saviour,  come  and  bless, 
Come  share  our  loneliness  ; 
We  need  a  comforter, 
Take  up  Thy  dwelling  here. 


In  the  quiet  parish  of  Brixham,  admonished  by 
his  failing  health,  Lyte  bade  a  farewell  to  his 
people.  On  that  last  Sabbath  he  preached  of  the 
Holy  Communion,  and  then  once  more  adminis- 
tered it  to  his  loving  flock.  On  that  same  even- 
19 


2 1 8  Christus  ad  Port  a  in. 

ing  he  gave  into  the  hands  of  a  dear  friend  this 
his  last  hymn,  and  then,  living  only  until  he 
reached  Nice,  he  entered  into  that  closer  com- 
munion of  which  Jesus  spake  to  His  own  when 
He  promised  to  drink  of  the  fruit  of  the  vine 
with  them  in  His  Father's  kingdom.  For  this 
disciple  there  was  not  long  to  wait ;  but  almost 
as  if,  on  the  instant  of  his  prayer,  the  angel  had 
been  caused  to  fly  swiftly  to  bear  him  answer  from 
the  King,  because  he  was  greatly  beloved,  he 
saw  at  once — 

"Heaven's  morning  break,  and  earth's  vain  shadows  flee  ;" 
and  now  he  abideth  with  his  Lord. 

ABIDE  WITH  ME. 

Abide  with  me  !     Fast  falls  the  even-tide ! 
The    darkness    deepens :    Lord,    with    me 

abide  ! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O  abide  with  me  ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day ; 
Earth's  joys   grow    dim  ;    its   glories   pass 
away  ; 


A  spirations.  219 

Change  and  decay  in  all  around  T  see  ; 

0  Thou  who  changest  not,,  abide  with  me ! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word  ; 
But  as  Thou  dwell'st  with  Thy  disciples, 

Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free, 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide  with  me ! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings  ; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  Thy 

wings ; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea*  ; 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  and  thus  bide  with 

me. 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile, 
And  though  rebellious  and  perverse  mean- 
while, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  Thee  : 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me ! 

1  need  Thy  presence  every  passing  hour. 
What  but  Thy  grace  can  foil  the  Tempter's 

power? 


2  2o  Christies  ad  For  tarn. 

Who  like  Thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can  be  ? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O  abide  with 

me  ! 

I  fear  no  foe  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless  : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tear's  no  bitterness. 
Where  is  Death's  sting  ?  where,  Grave,  thy 

victory  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  Thou   Thy  cross  before   my  closing 

eyes; 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to 

the  skies : 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain 

shadows  flee. 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me ! 

Berryhead,  September,  1847. 


So  have  the  many  who  have  led  the  church  in 
psalms,  and  hymns,  and  spiritual  songs,  prayed 
and   sung ;    and   if   we  cannot^  like  them,  voice 


Aspirations.  221 

forth  our  prayers  and  longings,  yet  He  who  know- 
eth  the  heart  seeth  whether  we  are  making  ready 
for  His  approach,  and  sighing  for  the  hour  when  He 
shall  come.  If  thus  (though  all  silently),  we  are 
seeking  Him  whom  our  soul  loveth,  His  quick 
ear  catches  the  melody  in  our  hearts  which  He 
loves  best  to  hear,  better  than  all  tuneful  measures 
of  sweet  instruments,  better  than  pleasant  words 
of  rhythmic  sound.  If  now  we  stand  thus, 
voiceless  but  praiseful,  whilst  a  godly  priest  ut- 
tereth  his  prayer;  if  our  hearts  respond  to  each 
petition  and  our  voices  join  in  the  grand  "  amen  " 
sounding  from  century  to  century,  on  Christian 
tongues,  since  Jeremy  Taylor,  devout  as  he  was 
eloquent,  first  put  this  craving  of  the  heart  into 
words,  doubt  not  that  He  will  hear  in  heaven  His 
dwelling  place  and  send  to  our  yearning  hearts 
His  answer  of  peace.     Let  us  pray  : — 

"  Lord,  Thou  shalt  'find  my  heart  full  of  cares 
and  worldly  desires,  cheated  with  love  of  riches, 
and  neglect  of  holy  things,  proud,  and  unmorti- 
fied,  false  and  crafty  to  deceive  itself,  intricated 
and  entangled  with  difficult  cases  of  conscience, 
with  knots  which  my  own  wildness,  and  inconsid- 
eration,  and  impatience,   have  tied   and  shuff^d 

19* . 


222  Christus  ad  Portam . 

together.  0  my  dearest  Lord,  if  Thou  canst  be- 
hold such  an  impure  seat,  behold,  the  place,  to  which 
Thou  art  invited,  is  full  of  passion  and  prejudice, 
evil  principles  and  evil  habits,  peevish  and  disobedi- 
ent, lustful  and  intemperate,  and  full  of  sad  remem- 
brances, that  I  have  often  provoked  to  jealousy  and 
to  anger  Thee,  my  God,  my  dearest  Saviour,  Him 
that  died  for  me,  Him  that  suffered  torments  for  me, 
that  is  infinitely  good  to  me,  and  infinitely  good 
and  perfect  in  Himself.  This,  0  dearest  Saviour, 
is  a  sad  truth,  and  I  am  heartily  ashamed,  and 
truly  sorrowful  for  it,  and  do  deeply  hate  all  my 
sins,  and  am  full  of  indignation  against  myself  for 
so  unworthy,  so  careless,  so  continued,  so  great  a 
folly ;  and  humbly  beg  of  Thee  to  increase  my 
sorrow,  and  my  care,  and  my  hatred,  against  sin ; 
and  make  my  love  to  Thee  swell  up  to  a  great  grace, 
and  then  to  glory  and  immensity.  Therefore,  O 
blessed  Jesus,  who  art  my  Saviour  and  my  God, 
whose  body  is  my  food,  and  Thy  righteousness  is 
my  robe,  thou  art  the  Priest  and  the  Sacrifice, 
the  Master  of  the  feast  and  the  feast  itself,  the  Phy- 
sician of  my  soul,  the  Light  of  mine  eyes,  the  Puri- 
fier of  my  stains  :  enter  into  my  heart,  and  cast  out 
fro^xi  thence  all  impurities,  all  the  remains  of  the  old 


A  spirations.  223 

man.  O  now  come,  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly  : 
my  heart  is  desirous  of  Thy  presence  and  thirsty 
of  Thy  grace,  and  would  fain  entertain  Thee,  not 
as  a  guest,  but  as  an  inhabitant,  as  the  Lord  of 
my  faculties.  Enter  in  and  take  possession,  and 
dwell  with  me  forever ;  that  I  also  may  dwell  in 
the  heart  of  my  dearest  Lord,  which  was  opened 
for  me  with  a  spear  and  love."     Amen. 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LESTES. 


PAGB 

•  Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  evening  tide H.  F.  Lyte.  218 

Ach,  komm,  du  siisser  Herzengast Anon.  186 

Amazing  sight  I  the  Saviour  stands Anon.  36 

And  a  soft,  fluttering  stir  passed  over  all J.  Ingelow.  71 

And  how  will  I  call  upon  my  God  ? St.  Augustine.  191 

And  will  the  Lord  thus  condescend  ? Mrs.  Steele.  34 

A  stranger  in  the  pale  moonlight H.N.  Oxenham.  59 

Auf  !  mein  Herz,  dein  Heil  ist  nahe Ludwig  v.  Pfeil.  178 

A  wounded  hand  doth  knock  upon  thy  door Grace  Wehster 

Hinsdale.  65 

Batter  my  heart,  three-personed  God,  for  you  .  .Dr.  John  Donne.  128 

Behold,  a  Stranger 's  at  the  door Joseph  Grigg.  31 

Behold,  I  knock,  at  holy  Advent,  see  . . .  Tr.  from  German  hy  J. 

E.  A..Brown.  114 

Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock G.  Moultrie,  M.  A.  53 

Behold,  poor  man,  to  what  high  joys Tr.  from  German.  109 

Cease  ye  from  man's  delusive  word Charlotte  Elizabeth.  47 

Christ,  He  requires  still  wheresoe'er  He  comes Herrick.  51 

Come,  dearest  Lord,  descend  and  dwell "Watts.  192 

-.  Come,  my  Redeemer,  come Anon.  197 

Da  ist  mein  Herz,  du  Herz  der  Seele  ! Count  Zinzendorf  211 

Deck  thyself,  my  soul,  with  gladness Tr.  from  German  by 

Miss  Winkworth.  169 

Doth  He  who  came  the  lost  to  seek  ? » J.  L.  60 

Eia  dulcis  anima Munich  MS.  XV.  Century.  99 

Enter  our  hearts,  Redeemer  blest Doddridge.  193 

God  calling  yet.  and  shall  I  never  hearken Tr.  from  German 

by  J.  Borthwick.  105 

»  God  calling  yet,  shall  I  not  hear Tr.  from  German.  106 

Gott  rufet  noch Tersteegen.  102 

(225) 


226  Index  to  First  Lines. 

Hail,  Thou  who  from  heaven  on  high  . . .  .Tr.  from  Latin  by  J.  D. 

Chambers.  150 

Happy  the  times,  but  ah  !  the  times  are  gone Watts.  194 

Haste,  my  soul,  thou  sister  sweet  —  Tr.  from  Latin  by  J.  D. 

Chambers.  100 

Hear  what  the  Lord,  the  great  Amen John  Newton.  45 

Heart  of  my  soul,  my  heart  I  proffer Tr.  212 

Hosianna  David's  Sohn .' B.  Schmolke.  183 

How  long  must  the  Saviour  stand  knocking  and  waiting  ? Tr. 

from  German.  112 

How  shall  I  meet  Thee,  how  my  heart Tr.  from  German  by 

Miss  Winkworth.  157 

I  have  a  wonderful  Guest Anon.  139 

I  lift  my  heart  and  eyes  to  Thee Toplady.  13 

In  the  moonlight,  when  no  murmur  from  the  haunts  of  men  is 

heard.... B.  A.  19 

In  the  silent  midnight  watches Rev.  A.  C.  Coxe.  64 

I  wait,  saith  Jesus,  at  your  door Anon.  37 

I  will  return  unto  the  Lord  ...Tr.  from  German  by  Miss  C. 

Winkworth.  163 

Jesu,  dulcis  memoria St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  199 

Jesus,  gentlest  Saviour F.  W.  Faber.    Introduction,  ix 

Jesu,  Jesu,  komm'  zu  mir Angelus  Silesius.  208 

Jesus,  Jesus,  visit  me Tr.  by  R.  P.  Dunn.  210 

Jesu,  meiner  Seelen-wonne Martin  Jahn.  172 

Jesu,  the  very  thought  of  Thee Tr.  from  Latin  by  E.  Caswell.  202 

Jesu.  the  very  thought  is  sweet.    Tr.  from  Latin  by  J.  M.  Neale.  206 

Jesu,  Thou  my  souPs  best  pleasure Tr.  from  German.  175 

King  of  glory,  looking  love  and  meekness. . .  J  .Wilson  Ward,  Jr.  141 

Knocking,  knocking,  ever  knocking Mrs.  H.  E.  B.  Stowe.  15 

Let  Christ,  the  glorious  Lover Anon.  41 

Lord,  Thou  hast  sought  this  wayward  heart  in  vain...  W.  R. 

Weale.  21 

Lord,  Thou  shalt  find  my  heart,  etc Jeremy  Taylor.  221 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that  with  unceasing  care  —  Tr.  from  Spanish 

by  H.  W.  Longfellow.  119 

Love  Divine,  all  loves  excelling C  Wesley.  192 

My  soul,  my  soul  arise Tr.  from  Greek.  97 

My  spirit  longs  for  Thee J.  Byrom.  213 


Index  to  First  Lines.  227 


Now  is  the  time,  the  accepted  hour Cowper  39 

Now  see  ye  qui  and  for  quas  sake Old  English.  145 

O  hlest  the  land,  the  city  blest Tr.  from  German  by  Miss 

Winkworth.  160 

O,  come,  sweet  inmate  of  my  breast Tr.  from  German.  188 

O  God,  O  Kinsman,  loved,  but  not  enough Jean  Ingelow.  214 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  standing Eev.  W.  Walsham  How.  134 

Open  to  me,  my  sister A.  K.  C.  57 

Out  on  the  world  unheeded  came  there  One  at  midnight  hour. 

E.  L.  L.  130 

O,  wohl  dem  Land,  o  wohl  dem  Stadt Geo.  Weiszel.  160 

Que  tengo  yo,  que  mi  amistad  procuras  ? Lope  de  Vega.  118 

Eise,  my  heart,  the  Lord  immortal  . .  .Tr.  from  German  of  Lud- 

wig  v.  Pfeil.  180 

Salve  Saluberrima Munich  MS.  XV.  Century.  146 

Schau'.  armer  Mensch  !  zu  diesem  Gliick   J  C.  Storr.  108 

Schmiicke  dich,  O  liebe  Seele J.  Frank.  165 

Shout  hosanna  !  David's  son. .  .Tr.  from  German  of  B.  Schmolke.  184 

Sinners,  behold  the  Saviour  stands Anon.  38 

Sinner,  careless,  proud,  and  cold Phoebe  Cary.  67 

Sinner,  rouse  thee  from  thy  sleep Anon.  30 

Son  of  Man,  my  heart  within A.  L.  Waring.  136 

Speechless  Sorrow  sat  with  me H.  McE.  Kimball.  143 

The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand. .  Herbert  Kynaston.  62 

The  pearly,  purple  clearness Anon.  23 

Thy  God  was  making  haste  into  thy  roof Crashaw.  125 

Thy  mansion  is  the  Christian's  heart Cowper.  195 

'T  is  evening  now H.  Bonar.  216 

Unfold  your  gates  and  open • Anon.  129 

Visit,  then,  this  soul  of  mine C.  Wesley.    Introduction,  viii 

Wie  lange  musz  Jesus  doch  bey  uns  anklopfen Anon.  110 

Wie  soil  ich  dich  empfangen  ? 154 

When  wilt  Thou  come  unto  me,  Lord?... Rev.  Thos.  Shepard. 

Introduction,  vi 

Why  not  now,  my  God,  my  God? C.  Wesley.    Introduction,  vii 

You  have  denired  o.i  this  day,  etc Pere  Hyacinthe.  120 


ESTDEX   OF  AUTHORS 

AND  SOURCES  QUOTED  IN  THIS  COLLECTION. 


Abide  with  Me.    Rev.  H.  F.  Lyte.    Miscellaneous  Poems,  by  Henry 

Francis  Lyte,  M.  A.,  Late  Incumbent  of  Lower  Brixham,  Devon. 

Pub.  by  A.  D.  F.  Randolph,  New  York. 
Abide  with  Us.    Rev.  H.  Bonar.    Hymns  of  Faith  and  Hope,  2d  series. 

By  Horatius  Bonar.  D.D.,  Kelso.     Robert  Carter  &  Brothers, 

New  York. 
Ach  komm,  du  susser  Herzengast.  Anon.   Gesangbuch  zum  gebrauch 

der  evangelischen  Bruder-gemeinen.    Barby,  1783. 
Advent.    Tr.  from  German  of  K.  Gerok,  by  J.  E.  A.  Brown.    From 

Palm  Leaves,  tr.  from  the  German  of  Karl  Gerok,  by  J.  E.  A. 

Brown.     Strahan  &  Co.,  London. 
Amazinar  Sight !    The  Saviour  Stands.    Anon.    The  Psalmist. 
Auf,  mein  Herz.    Cbristoph  Karl  Ludwig  v.  Pfeil.    Knapp's  Geist- 

licher  Liederschatz,  1865.    Hymn  957. 

Behold,  poor  man.    Tr.  from  German  of  Dr.  Johann  C.  Storr. 
Behold,  thy  King  Cometh  to  Thee.    Anon.    Kennedy's  Hymnologia 

Christiana. 
Brothers  and  a  Sermon.    Jean  Ingelow.    From  Poems  by  Jean  In- 

gelow.    Roberts  Brothers,  Boston. 

Christ's  Address  to  the  Church  of  Laodicea.    Rev.  John  Newton. 

Olney  Hymns. 
Christ's  Condescension.    Mrs.  Anna  Steele.    From  Theodosia. 
Christ  Knocking  at  the  Heart.    Grace  Webster  Hinsdale.    New  York 

Independent. 
Come,  my  Redeemer,  come.    Anon. 

(228)         ' 


Index  of  A  uthors.  229 

Da  ist  Mein  Herz.  Part  of  a  hymn,  by  Count  Zinzendorf.  beginning, 
"  Mein  Freund,  wie  dank'  ich's  deiner  Liebe  ?  Knapp's  Lieder- 
scbatz.    No.  1809. 

Deck  Thyself,  My  Soul,  with  Gladness.  From  German  of  Johann 
Frank,  by  Miss  C.  Winkworth.    The  Choral  Book. 

Enter  our  Hearts.  Part  of  hymn  beginning,  "  Come,  our  Indulgent 
Saviour,  come,"  by  Dr.  Philip  Doddridge.  From  Hymns  founded 
on  various  tests  in  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Pub.  from  the  Author's 
manuscript  by  Job  Orton.    1755. 

Exhortatio  animae  ad  sumendum  Corpus  Christi.  Munich  MS.,  XV. 
Century.    Mone's  Lateinischen  Hymnen.    No.  231. 

God  calling  yet,  and  shall,  etc.    Tr.  from  Tersteegen,  by  Jane  Borth- 

wick.    Hymns  from  the  Land  of  Luther. 
God  calling  yet,  shall  I  not  hear?    Tr.  from  Tersteegen.    Golden 

Moments. 
Gott  rufet  doch.    Gerhard  Tersteegen.    Knapp's  Liederschatz,  No. 

1317. 

Happy  the  Times.    From  a  lyric  beginning,  "Dear  Sovereign,  hear 

Thy  servant  pray,  by  Dr.  I.  Watts.    Lyric  Poems,  by  Dr.  Isaac 

Watts.    1694. 
Haste,  My  Soul.    Tr.  from  a  Munich  MS.  of  XV.  Century,  by  John 

David  Chambers,  M.A.    From  Lauda  Syon. 
He  came  unto  His  own,  and  His  own  received  Him  not.    E.  L.  L. 

From  Lyra  Eucharista.    Ld.  by  Rev.  Orby  Shipley,  M.  A.    1869. 

London. 
Heart  of  my  Soul,  my  Heart  I  proffer.    Tr.  from  German  of  Count 

Zinzendorf. 
Herein  is  Love.    J.  L.  1837.    Hymns  for  Divine  Worship,  compiled 

for  the  New  Methodist  Connection.    John  Cooke,  London. 
Holy  Sonnet.     Batter  my  Heart.    Dr.  John  Donne.    Holy  Sonnets, 

XXL    The  British  Poets. 
Hosianna,  David's  Sohn.    B.  Schmolke. 
How  Long?    Tr.  from  German  by  S.  H.  W. 
How  shall  I  meet  Thee?    Tr.  from  Gerhardt,  by  Miss  Winkworth. 

I  wait,  saith  Jesus.  Part  of  an  anonymous  hymn  beginning,  "  Where, 
saith  the  mourner."  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs,  compiled  by 
Eeuben  Peaslee,  1829. 

20 


230  Index  of  Authors. 

If  any  Man  hear  My  Voice,  etc.  Mrs.  Anna  L.  Waring.  Hymns  and 
Meditations,  by  Anna  L.  Waring.    Strahan  &  Co.,  London. 

I  will  return.  Tr.  from  Electress  Louisa  Henrietta,  by  Miss  C.  Wink- 
worth.  From  Christian  Singers  of  Germany,  by  C.  Winkworth. 
MacMillan  &  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

Jesu,  dulcis  memoria.    St.  Bernard  of  Clairvanx. 

Jesu,  Jesu,  Komm  zu  mir.     Angelus   Silesius.     Knapp's   Lieder- 

schatz,  No.  18-24. 
Jesus.  Jesus,  visit  me.    Tr.  from  Angelus  Silesius,  by  R.  P.  Dunn. 

The  Sacrifice  of  Praise. 
Jesu,  the  very  thought  of  Thee.    Tr.  by  E.  Caswell,  from  the  Latin  of 

St.  Bernard.    Lyra  Catholica. 
Jesu,  Thou  my  SouPs  best  Pleasure.    Tr.  from  German  of  Martin 

Jahn,  by  S.  H.  W. 

Knocking,  ever  Knocking.  Mrs.  Harriet  E.  B.  Stowe.  Shadow  of 
the  Rock,  compiled  and  pub.  by  Anson  D.  F.  Randolph,  1867. 

Laodicea,    Mrs.  Tonna.    Poems  by  Charlotte  Elizabeth. 

Liebe  zu  Jesu.    Martin  Jahn.    Rambach's  Anthologie  Christlichen 

Gesange.  Vol.  HI. 
Longing  for  Christ.    John  Byrom.    Plymouth  Collection. 
Love  Divine,  all  loves  excelling.    Chas.  Wesley.    Hymns  for  Meth. 

Epis.  Ch. 

My  Guest.  Anon.  The  Changed  Cross.  Compiled  and  pub.  by  A. 
D.  F.  Randolph,  New  York. 

Now  is  the  Time.  From  A  Warning  to  Sinners  to  Floe,  etc.  Divine 
Hymns,  collected  by  Joshua  Smith  and  others,  with  additions  by 
Wm.  Northrup.    Norwich,  Conn.,  1811. 

O  blest  the  Land,  etc.  From  a  hymn  beginning,  "  Lift  up  your  heads, 
ye  mighty  gates."  Tr.  by  Miss  C.  Winkworth,  from  the  German 
of  George  Weiszel.    Lyra  Germanica. 

O,  come,  Sweet  Inmate  of  my  breast.    Tr.  from  German  by  S.  H.  W. 

O  Jesu.  Thou  art  Standing.  Rev.  W.  Walsham  How.  Hymns  An- 
cient and  Modern. 

O  wohl  dem  Land,  O  wohl  der  Stadt.    George  Weiszel. 

Oratio  Praparatoria  ad  sacram  Communionem.  Munich  MS.,  XV. 
Century.    From  Mone's  Lateinischen  Hymnen,  No.  -233. 


Index  of  A  uthors.  2  3 1 

Rise,  my  Heart.    Tr.  from  German  of  C.  K.  Lud  wig  v.  Pfeil,  by  S.  H.W. 


Salve  Saluberrima.    Tr.  from  Latin  of  Munich  MS.  XV.  Century,  by 

John  David  Chambers,  M.  A.    Lauda  Syon. 
Scbau,  armer  Mensch  !    Dr.  Johann  Christian  Storr,  from  Knapp's 

Liederschatz.  No.  1479. 
Schmiicke  dich.    Johann  Frank. 

Shout  Hosanna  !  Tr.  from  German  Hymn  of  B.  Schmolke,  by  S.  H.  W. 
Sinners  invited  to  Christ.    Anon.    Original  and.  Select  Hymns  and. 

Spiritual  Songs  for  the  use  of  Christian  Societies.    John  Tiebout. 

New  York,  1807. 
Soneti  XVIH.    Lope  de  Vega  Carpio.    From  Obras  de  Lope  de  Vega, 

Vol.  XIII. 
Supplication.    Jean  Ingelow.    Hymns  for  all  Christians,  compiled  by 

Charles  F.  Deems  and  Phcebe  Cary.    New  York.  1869. 
Sups  with  Me.    Miss  Harriet  McEwen  Kimball.    Christus  Consolator, 

compiled  by  Rev.  A.  C.  Thompson,  1869. 

The  Heart's  Song.    Rev.  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe,  D.D.    Christian 

Ballads. 
The  Heavenly  Courtier.    Anon.    Divine  Hymns,  collected  by  Joshua 

Smith  and  others,  with  additions  by  Wm.  Northrup.    Norwich, 

Conn,  1811. 
The  Heavenly  Stranger.     A  Stranger,  etc.    H.  N.  Oxenham.    The 

Sentence  of  Kaines.    Shrimpton,  1854. 
The  Heavenly  Stranger.     Behold,  a  Stranger,  etc.     Joseph  Grigg. 

From  Sir  Roundell  Palmer's  Book  of  Praise. 
The  Homeless  Wayfarer.    Rev.  J.  Wilson  Ward,  Jr. 
The  Light  of  the  World.    In  the  moonlight,  etc.    B.  A.  Brasenose 

Col.,  England.    From  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock,  compiled  and 

pub.  by  A.  D.  F.  Pandolph,  New  York,  1867. 
The  Light  of  the  World.    Lord,  Thou  hast  sought.    W.  R.  Weale. 

From  The  Shadow  of  the  Rock,  compiled  and  pub.  by  A.  D.  F. 

Randolph,  New  York,  1867. 
The  Light  of  the  World.    The  pearly,  purple  clearness,  etc.    Anon. 

The  People's  Magazine. 
The  Man  of  Sorrows.     Rev.  Gerald  Moultrie,  M.A.     Hymns  and 

Lyrics  for  the  Seasons  and  Saints,  1862.    Days  of  the  Church. 

London.    Joseph  Masters. 
The  Morning  Watch.     Rev.  Herbert  Kynaston,  D.D.    Occasional 

Hymns. 
The  Night  Song.   A.  R.  C.   Lyra  Consolationis,  ed.  by  Rev.  H.  Bonar. 


-o- 


Ifidcx  of  Authors. 


Thy  Mansion  i>  the  Christian  Heart.    Wm.  Cowper.    Olney  Hymns. 
To-morrow.    From  Spanish  of  Lope  de  Vega,  by  H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Poems  by  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.    Ticknor  &  Fields, 

Boston. 

Unto  You  which  Believe.    Tr.  from  the  Latin  of  St.  Bernard  of 
Clairvaux.  by  Dr.  J.  M.  Neale.    Hymnal  Noted. 

Wie  soil  ich  dich  empfangen.  Paul  Gerhardt.   Knapp's  Liederschatz, 

No.  302. 
Wie  lange?    Anon.    Gesangbuch  zum  Gebrauch  der  evangelischen 

Brader-gemeinen.    Barby,  1783. 

Ye  did  it  unto  Me.    Phoebe  Cary.    New  York  Independent. 


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